FW 1947: Post-Elise, Foyle and Addis
by Wolseley37
Summary: After the funeral for Hilda Pierce, Foyle accepts Sam's resignation and rejects a friendship with Elizabeth Addis, but he cannot entirely break all ties with the Security Service as Sir Alec Myerson sets him a task: finish Hilda's last investigation.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Valentine et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:** Many thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering improvements to the manuscript.

**Other Notes:** Why this story?  
At Christmas 2018 Anthony Horowitz published a _Foyle's War_ story in the _Mail on Sunday_, set just after the Falklands War (1982) when Foyle was long retired. In the story he mentions Foyle's deceased second wife, Elizabeth.  
Intrepid investigators _'at sarahthe1001'_ and _'at BritDetectives'_ questioned Mr. Horowitz on Twitter, "Which Elizabeth? Was it EA (E. Addis) or EL (E. Lewes, from S.2 episode _Fifty Ships_)?"  
Horowitz replied on Dec. 23rd, "It was EA."  
Fan reactions ranged from outrage to intrigued curiosity. How could Foyle possibly be reconciled with a woman who had betrayed him, and for whom he seemed to have contempt, as evidenced in the final scene of _Elise_.  
On Tumblr the challenge was issued to FanFic writers (by blogger _'at thatvoice'_) to answer the call to duty.  
This is my idea of how Foyle might forgive and come to admire (again) Dr. Elizabeth Addis.

**Setting:** The action follows immediately from the last scene in _Elise_.

* * *

Chapter 1

Continuing up the footpath away from the cemetery Foyle was dismayed to see the Deputy Director of the Security Service, Sir Alec Myerson, standing by a large black car, clearly waiting for him. Myerson had just delivered the brief eulogy over the grave of Hilda Pierce to a mere handful of mourners. Samantha Wainwright had just given him her final notice, and he had just turned away from a woman he had considered a potential friend, but who had betrayed his trust. He had decisions to make about his own immediate future and wished to leave this bleak scene behind him.

Reluctantly he walked over to Myerson,  
"Oh. Thought we had the afternoon off."

"You do. Join me for a drink, Foyle."

It was more a command than an invitation. He cast a futile glance at the distant, retreating figure of Arthur Valentine. No help there. But Foyle's curiosity competed with his usual caution and his depressed frame of mind. Myerson had never included Foyle in end-of-day drinks in his office, nor made any overtures of a social nature. He doubted this conversation would be unrelated to work.

Foyle climbed into the back of the spacious saloon next to Myerson, and the driver shifted into gear and accelerated to no more than a sedate pace, befitting the solemn occasion they'd just attended.

"A bad business all around, this." Sir Alec summed up, watching out of the front window.  
"Y-yes."  
"I never cared for SOE," he continued — a refrain Foyle had heard before.  
"Should have been under direct military command, with a simple chain of authority." Almost to himself he added,  
"Skeletons will be falling out of closets for years. And not only figuratively."

Foyle noted it was the nearest Myerson had ever come to making a joke in his presence. Perhaps it wasn't a joke.  
He gazed out the side window without comment, and Myerson went on,  
"I'm very sorry to lose Miss Pierce. She was...highly effective. Had a deeply held sense of honour."  
"Humph," Foyle grunted quietly.  
"You'd take issue with that?"  
"Well…"  
"Miss Pierce had no particular appetite for spying on you, Foyle. It came from me. I ordered her to keep you under control, because of your infernal interference in the Strasser business."

Myerson paused and looked sideways at his passenger. More seemed required.  
"Mrs. Addis is not a member of the Security Service. She was released from SOE on VE Day, went straight back to her college and has kept her head down ever since." Seeing the same sour expression on his passenger's face that he'd witnessed mere moments ago, Myerson continued,  
"Have you not wondered what obligation Mrs. Addis was under to Miss Pierce? Why she might submit to such a request?"  
Foyle glanced at the man,  
"No."

At that moment they arrived at Myerson's club, where the Chief signed in his guest, and then led him to a pair of wingback chairs away from others in the room. After their drinks arrived, Sir Alec resumed the subject.  
"What do you know of Mrs. Addis?"  
"That she was two years at SOE Cairo Office, then transferred to the London Headquarters."  
"Is that all you know? Did she tell you about it?"  
Foyle only shook his head.  
"No, of course not, she's still under the Official Secrets Act."  
Myerson sipped his whisky thoughtfully, then stated,  
"You crossed paths with a Lieutenant Colonel Wintringham in early '41, in your capacity as a policeman. Hill House."  
"Yes," Foyle answered, puzzled at the change of subject.  
"A complete idiot, yes?"  
Foyle gave a curt nod.  
"Well, I can tell you the staff at the Cairo Office would make Wintringham look like an administrative genius. Elizabeth Addis was thrown into that snake pit of jealousy and backstabbing and barely made it out alive. Others did not. She was, nominally, Planning Officer to Lord Glenconner, but since he really didn't care to be in Egypt, she was left to work with his No. 2, Brigadier Keble. An outright lunatic, by all reports."

Foyle shifted in his seat,  
"Why are you telling me this?"

Myerson looked directly at him and took in a long breath.  
"Because, Foyle," he replied gravely, "you're a man very preoccupied with justice, and there may be an opportunity here for you to bring justice to a past — and continuing — wrong, and to avoid _committing_ an injustice yourself."

Foyle raised his eyebrows, somewhat affronted.

"Miss Pierce had promised to look into a matter deeply important to Mrs. Addis, and that is the _only_ reason Mrs. Addis very reluctantly agreed to report your activities back to her."  
Foyle was still sceptical. "A wrong for a wrong?"  
Myerson tilted his head back and regarded Foyle down the length of his nose,  
"Allow me to give you some reading matter, when we are next at the office."  
"I _have_ a book, thank-you." Foyle said offhandedly.

Myerson pursed his lips, and to Foyle's surprise, softened his imperious tone,  
"Finish this last investigation for Miss Pierce, Foyle. It would've meant a lot to her."

To be continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al. jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended.

**Note:** Eternal thanks to GiuliettaC.

* * *

Chapter 2

Arthur Valentine was growing more and more curious about the unofficial and substantial mountain of reading Foyle was occupied with in his very quiet office. He'd been at it for days, had never requested anything more from the research department, and seemed to be working under nobody's direction. What on earth was he doing?  
It was damned quiet on every floor of the Security Service building in the wake of the shocking death of Miss Pierce, but others were busily going about their usual work, albeit in subdued tones. Foyle, by contrast, was completely isolated.  
Valentine's own cases at the moment were proving tedious, so it was only natural for him to pause outside his colleague's office and indulge his curiosity. He gave a quick rap below the brass nameplate and entered without waiting.

Sitting behind his desk in the dim February afternoon light from the window, Foyle seemed to take a moment to come out of whatever he'd been focused on, slowly lifting his eyes from the document before him.  
"Yes?"  
"You've been locked up in here for days, Foyle. What are you working on?"  
"Nnot locked up, as is quite apparent from your freely entering without leave to do so." He tilted his head to one side.  
Valentine shut the door, approached and saw that his colleague looked tired. His words had been neutral, if not especially friendly. But that was Foyle's way, he'd learned over the past year. A subtle, dry sense of humour that Valentine quite enjoyed, and would even go so far as to provoke.  
"Answer the question."  
"Just...something from the past — from the War. Something Miss Pierce was working on, in her spare time. Not that she had any."  
"Something interesting?" Valentine's eyes brightened. "Old scores to settle?"  
"_Mm_...not sure yet." Foyle ran a hand across his eyes, and handed the paper, which had been the top one in a thick file folder, across to his colleague.  
"What do you make of this?"

Valentine found himself surprised. This rarely happened in the Security Service. Most people here wanted the credit for any discoveries all for themselves. He took the paper, studied the overall look of it and then read it with practised speed.  
"A decryption of a field agent's signal. Occupied Yugoslavia. 1943."  
"Oh. Is that, _er_…?"  
"_Suvobor_? A mountain. South-west of Belgrade, if I recall correctly. A Chetnik stronghold for several months that year. Why are you looking at all these old reports?" Valentine nodded towards the file folders.  
"Not entirely sure. _Er_ ...Chetnik?"  
"Translates from Serbian to something akin to 'freedom fighter.' The forces loyal to their exiled monarch, King Peter II. Led by officers of the Royal Yugoslav Army. And our allies in the region, until Churchill shifted support to the Partisans. You may recall the government-in-exile and King Peter were here in London. At the same time as the German and Italian invasion, there was a civil war underway there with Serbs, Croats, Slovenes, Bosnian Moslems..._many_ sides competing for political dominance while also fighting against, or collaborating with, the enemy."  
"And the Partisans were the, _um…_?"  
"The Communists. Led by a Croat, Josip Broz."  
"Prime Minister Tito?"  
"The very man."  
"Right. And this signal…" Foyle gestured to the paper in Valentine's hand, "...came from a British field agent…?"  
"...On a mission to the Chetniks." This was getting rather complex. Valentine glanced at the empty chair facing Foyle's desk.  
"Yes, do."  
The younger man sat down, and continued,  
"Until late 1943 we supported the Chetniks, led by General Draza Mihailovic. However, our agents in the field began reporting that the Partisans were more effective in fighting the Germans, which Churchill liked. And there were accusations made that the Chetniks may have been communicating with the Italians, and possibly even collaborating with the Italians and the Germans in order to stop the Partisans. Churchill didn't like that."  
"Hmmh." Foyle leaned forward to gesture across the material and ended up resting his chin on his hand,  
"My difficulty with all this is that I don't know what I'm looking for - what Miss Pierce was looking for."

Surprised at his candour, Valentine tilted his head at the stacks of papers,  
"...It looks like the bulk of those files are field reports. And all marked Classified."  
"Yes. They were in a box in Miss Pierce's office."  
"Highly irregular. Would it help to know the names of the agents?"  
"Wull, ...couldn't hurt?"  
"I'll take notes and get the information for you."

Valentine rose to step around the side of the desk, pulling a notebook out of his suit jacket pocket, and began sifting expertly through the documents in the open file folder.  
"Four...five code names repeated. Which makes sense; the missions sent into the region were small. Sometimes a single agent parachuted in, to provide the latest intelligence and planning to resistance leaders, and to rendezvous with an earlier mission that would have the wireless transmitter."  
He looked up,  
"Shall I go through these other files?"  
"Yyyes. Please do." Foyle offered his chair to his colleague, standing to the side to observe, hands in trouser pockets.  
"Thank-you, Arthur."  
Valentine imperceptibly paused in his riffling of the papers, noting his colleague's use of his Christian name, and compressed his lips in a small smile.

* * *

It was the next morning and the two men were back in Foyle's office, facing each other across the desk, discussing and considering the results of Valentine's research.  
"The signals range from 1942 through to early 1944. The code names in the signals represent these sixteen agents. I've taken the liberty of retrieving their personnel files. Four are deceased. Five are in America. Four in Britain. Three...have gone to the Soviet Union."  
Foyle raised his eyebrows at this last piece of information.  
"You have to remember they were our allies at the time," supplied Valentine.  
"Wull, let's start with the deceased agents. Easier to track down, at least."  
"Slightly more difficult to interview," Valentine murmured as he sorted the four files to the top and handed two across the desk to Foyle. After a few minutes of reading Foyle closed the first file and opened the second. Frowning, he asked,  
"What does this black margin mean?"  
The younger man looked up,  
"Oh dear. _That_ is the designation for a possible deserter, traitor, suspected collaborator, or a War Criminal.* What's the agent's name?"  
Foyle's eyes scanned to the top of the page and Valentine saw the moment he went on the alert.  
"Who is it?"  
"...The name is Thomas Addis."  
Valentine straightened up in his chair, "Addis? The husband of -?"  
"Elizabeth Addis."  
"She was at the funeral. Miss Pierce knew her. Had spoken with her recently, I believe. ...She's long out of all this. Isn't she?"  
"Not entirely."

Foyle got up from his chair in some agitation, distancing himself from the black-margined documents, and paced over to the window,  
"Miss Brown in Research had her file out the other day. Could you ask her for it again, please?"  
"Did she? Certainly." Valentine left the office immediately.

Foyle returned to the desk and stood over the Addis dossier with his hands clasped behind his back. He studied the face in the attached identification photograph, an earnest, dark-haired man, good looking, perhaps in his mid-thirties at the start of the War. Foyle read the cover page.

Several minutes later Valentine walked in, mildly annoyed,  
"It was _you_ who'd requested her file. Why?" He dropped the folder onto the desk and sat down.  
"The Clayton Del Mar case. Mrs. Addis - or rather, _Dr_. Addis - had the next office to the translator who was murdered, Professor William Knowles of University College. She helped with our inquiries. I ruled her out as a suspect."  
"That case is closed."  
"She also helped with our difficulties in the attempted sabotage of the Palestinian Conference. She had been at SOE Cairo Office, then the London Office where she advised on the region. She agreed to translate several documents, French and Arabic, to do with shipping."  
Valentine rose from his chair and paced thoughtfully,  
"That's why she attended Miss Pierce's funeral? This recent contact?"  
"Yesss, I suppose so."  
"Is this your own inquiry, Foyle?" Valentine turned his head to ask, narrowing his eyes.  
"Not at all. I've been asked to help."  
"Sir Alec has asked you to investigate this?"  
"Wulll…, it was Miss Pierce's inquiry, as I've said. Her promise to Dr. Addis, not fulfilled."  
Pacing away again, pleased with the sentiment, Valentine nodded. Then he turned back and stated in a more business-like voice,

"And we've just discovered that her husband may have been a traitor."  
"So it would seem."  
"What did he do?" Valentine returned to stand by the desk.  
Foyle passed him the folder and he quickly examined the papers.  
"Nothing."  
"There's no information about a charge or a court martial in his personnel file?"  
"Nothing at all." Valentine set the open file folder in front of his colleague again.  
"But there _was_, ...at some point." With an index finger Foyle gingerly lifted the top edge of the identification cover document,  
"There is a clear imprint of a paper clip where more documents were once attached."  
"Well, well, well."  
Foyle cocked an eyebrow at him, displeased at his levity.  
Valentine continued,  
"If Mrs. Addis were a fellow traveller, or a Soviet agent, she'd hardly ask the Service to dredge up the past, would she? No, she's trying to clear her late husband's name. That's our case."

Foyle nodded, deep in thought and biting the inside of his cheek worriedly, then he looked up,  
"'_Our'_ case?"  
Valentine smirked at him, but didn't suggest Foyle might be out of his depth.  
Twisting his mouth to one side, Foyle acknowledged his point,  
"Right." Then added, "I'd be very grateful for the help. Thank-you."  
Valentine sat down,  
"Where and how did he serve?"

To be continued...

* * *

*I invented the 'Black Margin' detail.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Author's Note:** Many of the British Liaison Officers and field agents mentioned in this story are inspired by actual people who served in Yugoslavia with SOE. Some are mentioned by their real names, some names have been slightly altered, but their stories and dates are fairly accurate, at least as far as post-war records, histories, interviews and memoirs can be relied upon.

**Thanks:** Gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 3

Thomas Addis was a junior lecturer in history and languages at the Institute of Slavonic and East European Studies in London when the War broke out, and had been recruited out of the regular army by SOE London, a perfect candidate for secret missions in the Balkans.

It was the work of several hours to trace Captain Addis's movements in Yugoslavia in 1942 and 1943 through his reports and signals sent to the Cairo Office while on missions to the local fighting forces. In accordance with British efforts to support all nationalist opposition to the invading German and Italian enemy in the region, Addis had on a number of occasions either been parachuted in or landed on coastal beaches to join the mostly Serbian Chetniks commanded by General Draza Mihailovic. The General was Minister of War for the Royalist Yugoslav Government-in-exile, which operated from London.

Between missions, Captain Addis had served in various capacities at the Cairo Office, where his wife, Elizabeth, also worked, having been recruited from her university to serve as a Planning Officer.

His many factual and detailed assessments of the situation on the ground were in stark contrast to the naive and enthusiastic reports of only slightly younger field agents of the Officer Class.

"Some of his reports are missing, wouldn't you agree?"  
"What've you got?" Valentine craned his neck towards the folder of documents.  
"Wull, it's what I _haven't_ got." Foyle indicated the paragraph,  
"Here he refers to a signal he sent two weeks earlier, from the Dalmatian coast. He says, '_still awaiting your action on this recommendation.' _But the earlier signal isn't here."  
Valentine agreed, "I'm seeing gaps as well."  
"And...information on a decisive battle against German forces at _Balinovac_, in his signal of 28th May, is contradicted by this signal," he laid his hand on another paper, "...sent the next day from another field agent in a different location."  
"Who's the agent?"  
"Chap named…" He consulted the list of code names, "F. W. Deakin."  
"Right. Oxford man. Close associate of Churchill. Field support for the Partisans."  
Foyle raised his eyebrows at Valentine's ready information, then remarked,  
"...Looks as though Miss Pierce was compiling a timeline of events. It's comprehensive but incomplete. We'll need to fill in the blanks."  
Valentine was undaunted as he mentioned,  
"Cairo records show contact with over 150 clandestine sets in the Balkans."  
Foyle sighed unhappily,  
"Wull, thank god this is focused primarily on signals of '43. Won't have to cover the _whole_ War."  
Valentine again noticed a weariness in his colleague. More than that, he seemed disheartened by the task. It occurred to him that Foyle might be missing the attentive presence of Mrs. Wainwright. After a pause he offered,  
"I'm going to see where the tea wagon is."

As they drank their tea and ate a rare couple of decent biscuits, Foyle asked,  
"Was there ever any crossover of field agents on the missions to the Chetniks and the Partisans?"  
"That's an interesting question. You know, I don't think there was, after '42. Early on there were attempts made to get the two leaders together, but they wouldn't have it. After that, field agents were sent to one HQ or the other. When the forces were in the same vicinity, agents on separate missions might meet or communicate by wireless transmitter. But there certainly was no cooperation, and often deadly conflict. The two sides hated each other, more than they hated the invading Germans."  
"Political or ethnic differences?"  
"Both."  
He pondered a moment,  
"Must've created animosity between the field agents. Divided loyalties."  
Valentine attempted to inject some humour,  
"Rather worse than enthusiasts of opposing football clubs."  
Ignoring the analogy, Foyle rubbed two fingers down his temple,  
"...It would be helpful to see clearly which agents were on the different missions and where and when they might have intersected."  
"I can have Miss Brown seconded from the research department to go through all of these and create a timeline of Addis's field work. She can even devise a one-page, multi-column accounting of the movements of other agents.* Then we can analyze the information."  
"That would be much appreciated."

Charlotte Brown, one of the Security Service's top researchers, produced everything they required in a mere two days. The results of her diligent and precise work yielded the names of several agents who had likely crossed paths with Addis, and two of them resided within easy travel.

To be continued...

* * *

*The term 'spreadsheet' didn't come into usage until the 1960s. ;o)


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Valentine et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Author's Notes:** Continual thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 4

Foyle went alone to the first interview, as the absence of both him and Valentine from the Security Service offices on what was essentially unofficial business might cause comment. After a long, wet drive, he met Captain Michael Rees at his home outside of London, and immediately understood why the man had requested the private location. Tall, well-built and fair haired, he walked with a stiff limp, and his otherwise youthful face was lined with pain.

"Took a few bullets in Italy. Never been quite right since," was all he'd say on the subject, but was willing enough to help Foyle with his inquiries.

They were seated in the front room with a finger of whisky in their glasses.

"Still sorting things out two years on, _eh_? Yes, I served in Yugoslavia, on missions to the Chetniks." He declared the last part with an aggressive pride.  
Foyle reminded him of the dates and locations of his later missions in the region, and got straight to the point,  
"You may have crossed paths with the subject of this inquiry, Captain Thomas Addis. Do you recall meeting him?"  
"Addis? Yes… An earnest, wiry chap, a linguist, got on well with the locals. Good man. Never dwelt on setbacks, always focused on finding a way forward."  
"No..._em_...controversies, that you were aware of?" Foyle realised he had to tread a careful line between casting aspersions and prompting a memory. Nonetheless Rees eyed him with suspicion.  
"Involving Addis? Nothing at all. He was a good man, as I've said, well liked, from what I saw of him. Straightforward. He did what was required."  
"Can you tell me where you last saw him?"  
"It was the day of the brawl. I'll never forget it. Mid-December '43. Agents from different missions had been called in to a temporary HQ on the coast of Montenegro. Those of us who had been with the Chetniks got briefed first. We were told the 'commanders on high' had just cut off all support, ordered us to cease operations, and we were hopping mad. I remember Addis saying darkly that it was Cairo, it was all Cairo's doing."  
"Did he name anyone in particular?"  
"No. That's all he said. And when we were invited to join the missions to the Partisans, he got up and walked out."  
"What was the, _er_, 'brawl' you mentioned?"  
Rees shook his head unhappily,  
"Agents from Partisan missions arrived later. Colonel Stuart was to brief us all on enemy positions and planned engagements. But some of our lot started calling out, blaming the other agents for standing by as the Partisans attacked their own countrymen instead of the enemy. Accusations flew back and forth, tempers flared, a punch was thrown, ...and a general affray ensued."  
"Addis wasn't a part of it?"  
"No, he'd left."  
"Had anyone else walked out?"  
"Not that I saw. Well, not everyone hung about once the fists were flying. Shameful really, but who could blame them? Look, I'm no political analyst, but...their own countrymen meant nothing to the Partisans. Tito had his own agenda, his own goals, and he worked for those goals exclusively, even if it meant weakening our fight against the enemy."

Foyle waited while the man drained his glass.

"Yes, the Chetniks were criticized for avoiding the Germans, but it was the reprisals on innocent villagers, you see. When the Germans said they'd shoot one hundred civilians for each soldier killed, General Mihailovic ordered his people to withdraw into the mountains. Tito didn't care about civilian deaths, especially if they were Serbians."  
Rees leant forward in eagerness to make his next point, but a spasm of pain crossed his face and he sat back again, laying a hand across his stomach.  
"The Chetniks were very effective saboteurs. Took out railways, bridges, roads, disrupted the supply lines, and kept fighting the Germans where they could. Mihailovic was waiting for the Allies to land, to join the fight. But we were told to pull our support. We left them to be hunted down by the Partisans. Yeah, you could say there were hard feelings between agents."

Grim-faced, Foyle nodded, then asked,  
"The brawl, _er_ \- you didn't get involved?"  
"I might've thrown a few punches."  
Foyle smiled sympathetically.  
"Did you see Addis after that?"  
"From a distance, saw him chatting with Will Hudson, another liaison officer.  
"Friendly chat, would you say?"  
"Serious."

The interview seemed concluded, however, Rees offered,  
"I met Addis's wife - widow, I should say. In London in May of '44. I was back in hospital, needing another procedure. She had to investigate a string of deaths of agents in France. Very grateful for the bit of intel I could supply her, about circuits I'd set up in '42. We had a long talk about pals from the early Chetnik days. ...She was as good as her word — came back that summer to visit and see that I was stronger."

Foyle gave him a brief, indifferent smile, and thanked Rees for his time.

Back in his car, Foyle got out the chart of SOE missions and located the name of the agent Rees had mentioned, Hudson. He saw the man's field work had intersected three times with Addis in 1943, first in February, then in May and the final time in December. He'd find out more about the objectives of those operations, and the work the two men had undertaken, when he returned to the office. For now, he would carry on to his next interview, with Retired Col. Roy MacInnis.

To be continued...

* * *

**Historical note: ** (I've fudged the dates a bit for the character of Michael Rees)

Michael Lees served in Yugoslavia as SOE Liaison Officer with the Chetniks, and then in Italy in 1944-45. In March of 1945 he led a combined group of 100 British, Italian, Spanish, Russian, French Foreign Legion fighters (and even a Dutch soldier) in Operation Tombola to smash the German defences at the Gothic Line. The mission was cancelled by distant superior officers at the last minute, but Lees went ahead and he and his fighters broke through the line and destroyed the enemy command HQ at Villa Rossi. Fellow commander SAS Major Roy Farran (who had been previously wounded and confined to a desk job) joined the raid with his 42 paratroopers, 'accidentally' falling out of the plane himself and landing in enemy territory. Scottish piper David Kirkpatrick joined the raid to identify it as British and avoid German reprisals against local Italian villagers. After the raid, Farran recommended an award of the Military Cross to Lees for his "gallantry, initiative and unequalled courage." But because he had ignored direct orders the award was denied, and Lees was dismissed from the Service. Farran was not court martialled, and was even given an award, the Legion of Merit, by the Americans. Lees was badly injured, shot five times during the raid, and still in hospital as the War ended. He was plagued with pain for the rest of his life, and died in 1992. A petition was launched in 2018 by historian and author Damien Lewis to have Lees' service record cleared and to award the Military Cross posthumously. In March 2019 Lees' daughter found among family papers a letter from Roy Farran (who died in 2006) faxed to Lees' widow a day after Lees' death in 1992, in which Farran says "Only I received and chose to ignore the signal for delay. My attack had already begun when it was received." This would appear to exonerate Lees from the charge of insubordination.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Mr. Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Author's Notes:** Many thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

**Historical Note:** All details mentioned by the character "Colonel Roy MacInnis" are from true accounts by, or histories of, British Liaison Officers who worked under SOE Cairo, including Fitzroy MacLean, Bill Gillanders, F. W. Deakin, Basil Davidson, Bill Bailey, Michael Lees, Mostyn Davies, and Robert Purvis.

* * *

Chapter 5

"Understanding SOE Cairo is rather like the seven blind men and the elephant: each chap you interview will have got hold of a different part."

They were fifteen minutes into their conversation, in the lounge for visitors at MacInnis' club, seated in the sort of comfortable leather-upholstered chairs one would expect to find in an establishment with hefty membership fees.

"It was the strangest collection of self-important misfits I'd ever encountered, led by an absentee Lord and a deranged Brigadier. Their training school deemed you qualified for clandestine operations after three days of foreign language, explosives and parachute practice."  
MacInnis continued with a note of disdain,  
"A stylish set of young bohemian staff officers all shared a leased villa with an exiled Polish countess and her mongoose. Rustam Buildings, for all its cloak and dagger pride, was known openly by taxi drivers as 'the secret building.'"  
He paused and examined his interviewer,  
"However, there was a dark influence going on underneath the surface, and no one at Forces Command could quite work out who was behind it."

"'Dark influence'?" Foyle prompted, puzzled.

"Anonymous phone calls, forged letters. Whispering campaigns against newly arrived officers. There was a half-serious rumour circulated that a staff officer who'd died at his desk of a heart attack had been experimentally poisoned by Brigadier Keble. ...Signals from field agents were altered, suppressed or mislaid entirely."

"For what purpose?"

MacInnis shrugged, and Foyle sensed his reluctance to disclose all he knew.  
"...Some sort of internal power struggle. _I_ had arranged to have my signals copied to the Foreign Office, to ensure they weren't rewritten or torn up. Cairo did everything in their power to block the American OSS from giving effective support. Wanted to control every aspect. Of course, SOE hated the regular army types. Didn't want them interfering with their smoke and mirrors game. From the field, we agents were baffled and frustrated. Some put it down to blunders or incompetence, but others of us felt there was more to it."

Foyle gestured to elicit further information,  
"...How so?"  
"Well...," MacInnis hesitated, then asked,  
"You say you were a police officer, a civilian, but what were you in the last show?"  
"I finished at the rank of captain. A temporary officer."  
"A 'temporary gentleman.'" MacInnis almost smiled but there was no offence in his tone.  
"Then you're well versed in the politics of military hierarchy. Throw these self-governing clandestine operatives into the mix, and it becomes a circus of petty jealousies, backstabbing, and outright sabotage."  
He eyed Foyle a moment,  
"...Very well, let me offer some examples."  
Leaning forward, he dropped his voice in a confidential tone,  
"How is it that some of the later operations in Yugoslavia were conducted without the knowledge or approval of the regular military chain of command? They weren't political missions, they were purely military. Missions that brought massive supplies of arms to the Partisans, with no approval and on no one's authority at Allied Command. They were organized by SOE Cairo alone."

Foyle raised his eyebrows, intrigued.

"And there was the influence over new field agents, as early as '42. These chaps might've been all right when they left England, but after passing through SOE Cairo they arrived on the ground in Yugoslavia completely prejudiced against the Chetniks. And as keen as mustard to join the Partisans. This was well before any missions had been sent to Tito."  
"You have a theory?"  
Again MacInnis hesitated, weighing the wisdom of voicing his suspicions.  
"You're with the Security Service, but not a career agent, not MI6?"  
"Far from it. I was asked to join only last year."  
MacInnis nodded and continued,  
"Late 1942, in a fierce engagement, the Chetniks routed the Germans, drove them back over the River _Drina_. A clear victory. The next day, BBC Balkan Service broadcast the report given them by SOE Cairo, handing all credit to the Partisans — who weren't bloody well there."  
He went on,  
"In July of '43 the Germans offered a reward of 100,000 gold crowns for the capture of Tito, and the_ same reward_ for the capture of Mihailovich. The British press touted the reward for Marshal Tito, but only one paper mentioned, in small print, the reward for Mihailovich. *  
"In October 1943 our mission supported the Chetniks as they blew up a bridge at _Visegrad_ vital to German supply lines. Again, it was reported the next day by BBC as a success by the Partisans. My radio operator nearly had a fit!"

He summed up his points, enumerating on his fingers,  
"Interference with signals coming in; a prejudicial influence over new agents; biased or even false information going out to the press and the BBC, to be spread widely as propaganda; and biased advice to upper levels of British and Allied Command. Result: we abandon the Chetniks and redirect all support to the Partisans. Before the War ends Marshal Tito declares a Communist Revolution and takes command of the country."  
He sat back heavily, watching for his listener's reaction.

Foyle twitched his mouth to one side, then gave him the obvious conclusion,  
"Communist sympathizers at work within SOE Cairo."  
"Communist _sleeper agents_. NKVD, or whatever they're calling it now. MGB, I believe."

Foyle's eyes narrowed in concern, and MacInnis reinforced his argument,  
"Why was it that all the ex-pat Yugoslavs SOE recruited from Canada and America for field operations were Croats — like Tito — and all were card-carrying Communist Party members? Every last one of them. Can you honestly believe that wasn't organised by someone?"

Foyle inhaled a long breath,  
"Did you discuss this openly with other agents?"  
"We discussed it. Not openly."  
"Who...shared your suspicions?"  
"Davies, Armstrong, Purvis, Rees. And, as you might expect, Thomas Addis."  
"Addis…to what extent? Might he have brought any of these concerns to higher ranks?"  
"Well, he was uniquely placed, in that he was stationed at Cairo HQ between missions, and in that his wife was Planning Officer to Lord Glenconner and then to Major General Stawell. She saw the operational decisions and workings first hand. But I believe they had kept their concerns to themselves, for lack of evidence against any individuals - real proof of conspiracy, insubordination or treachery."  
MacInnis gestured with an open palm,  
"The end was in sight, you see. The Italians were out of it and much of those occupied lands regained. The Americans were there. The Soviet Red Army would soon be on its way to repulse the Germans. ...Difficult to interest our leaders in complaints against officers colluding with an _ally_. And Churchill wasn't particularly concerned, once the Germans were defeated, _which_ man was going to govern Yugoslavia, or whether it continued as a constitutional monarchy or became a communist state. His remark to an advisor was, '_Are you planning to live there after the War? Neither am I._' It was bloody short-sighted."

Foyle gave a slow nod of affirmation.  
MacInnis lowered his voice again,  
"But chances are...the sleeper agents who were at work within SOE or military intelligence have moved on to other roles, and may be in positions of even greater authority and influence."  
"We've...uncovered that sort of thing, yes."  
"It's rather insidious. Difficult to measure the damage being done."  
"I'd agree."

Foyle shifted forward in his seat to mark a change of subject,  
"Did you cross paths with another field agent, Will Hudson?"  
MacInnis gave a grunt of derision,  
"Oh, yes. An adventurer. Seemed to turn up everywhere like a bad penny, except on the occasions when he went missing. A lightweight. Only mildly effective. Harmless, but should have been better, more diligent, at the work. ...Not really one of us."  
"I see. ...Did you know Addis well?"  
"We worked together in Cairo and on two missions to the Chetniks. I felt we understood each other. A very good sort. His wife, too. Highly intelligent people, real assets to the operations."  
As an aside he added,  
"It was a pleasure to see Elizabeth again, when I was on leave here in London in the Spring of '44. Even if it was business."  
Foyle looked up sharply,  
"What business was that?"  
"Her inquiry into recent deaths of field agents in France. I suggested she was casting the net rather wide. I hadn't worked in France or F Section since '42. Our conversation, naturally, turned to Cairo and Yugoslavia."

Foyle shut his eyes briefly in sudden understanding: Elizabeth Addis had made use of the bogus three-month-long Plato investigation for her own purposes, to try to discover what had happened to her husband.  
"...Do you recall any particulars of the conversation?"  
"Well, of course she was grieving for Tom, throwing herself into the work."  
MacInnis gave a melancholy smile,  
"She wanted to remember the names of field agents who had known him, perhaps look them up after the War." He shook his head regretfully,  
"Can't believe he didn't make it. A true scholar and a gentleman."

Foyle chewed on his lower lip a moment before asking,  
"...So you'd be surprised to learn that he was accused of some sort of disloyalty?"  
MacInnis sat up,  
"I bloody well would. I'd be outraged."

* * *

Sitting behind the wheel of his car Foyle gazed unseeing out of the windscreen, reviewing what he had just learned and pondering the implications of the information.  
Just two months after her husband's death Elizabeth Addis had used the cover of the Plato investigation — without drawing the suspicions of anyone at SOE or MI6 — to interview dozens of field agents in an effort to learn how he had died.  
She hadn't been wasting her time. To his way of thinking this was indeed a mitigating factor, one that he could sympathise with.  
No details of Thomas Addis's death were recorded in his personnel file. The statement that he had died in a car accident appeared only in his wife's file. Where had that statement come from, and who had placed it in her file?

Neither had she been protecting Ian Woodhead — though her actions _had_ served his ambitions. Her words, that had struck him so disappointingly as a mere excuse for moral weakness, came back to him,  
'_It's not you, it's not me. It's the world that we inhabit.'  
_She knew first-hand how treacherous and perverse that world was, had been tragically hurt by it. Yet had remained in it until the end of the War, appearing to go along with its twisted logic as she sought justice for her husband.

But by playing a part in Plato, she knew she had betrayed Hilda Pierce, one of the few people she _could_ trust. Out of guilt perhaps and under the pressure of needing Pierce's help, she had agreed to spy on _him_, something she immediately regretted.  
And Foyle had seen the single report she had written about him, after Myerson had dropped it on his desk one day without comment. It was essentially benign and she had recommended ending the surveillance.

In light of what he now knew, had he reacted too harshly?  
He recalled Hilda Pierce chiding him, when she asked him to join the Security Service,  
'_This is no time for hurt feelings.'  
_Was he standing on principle and his own moral code with regard to Elizabeth Addis, or was his rejection of her, in fact, a little more to do with hurt feelings? He admitted to himself that he had harboured some hopes of a close friendship.  
And when _Hilda_ had apologised to him, he had accepted it without comment.

Still...it was difficult to put aside his feeling of betrayal.  
To continue this inquiry they would need to know what information Elizabeth Addis already had. He would send Valentine to interview her.

As rain began to blur the world beyond the windscreen, Foyle pressed his fingers over his eyes and rubbed his temples. He considered that there was another avenue of inquiry he could pursue in this case, another source of wartime intelligence, one that might have the advantages of reliability and clarity. And he knew someone who had worked with that information.

He shook off his fatigue and started the motor.

To be continued...

* * *

**Footnote:**  
*This detail of the German offer of identical rewards for Tito and Mihailovic paraphrases a line from George Orwell's foreword to his novella, _Animal Farm_, published in August 1945. The foreword was omitted by the publisher as being too controversial, and was not printed until 1972.  
**Historical** **Note: **General Mihailovic and the last of his Chetnik leaders were captured, subjected to a show trial in Belgrade and then executed by Marshal Tito on July 17, 1946.

** Note:** A Belgrade court in modern Serbia rehabilitated Mihailovic, annulled the sentence of death, and restored all his civil rights on May 14, 2015, which stirred up controversies throughout the Balkan region.

**Historical** **Note**: The term 'sleeper agent' was used in western intelligence circles. The term 'mole' didn't come into use until the 1970s, introduced to the western public by author John LeCarré in his 1974 spy novel, 'Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.' The USSR secret police and intelligence agencies went through many name and acronym changes, and didn't become the KGB until 1954.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 6

Contemplating the questions he and Foyle had formulated, Arthur Valentine followed the elderly porter up the stairs to the door of the office he had requested. He'd had no occasion to visit University College before. He was a Cambridge man. The porter left him, hat in hand, to knock on the door himself, and moments later it was opened by Dr. Addis. He recognised the sad-eyed, past middle-age but still attractive blonde woman who had stood at a distance from the other mourners at Hilda Pierce's funeral. If anything, her eyes were shadowed by a deeper sadness than on that day, yet at the sight of her unexpected visitor her expression first lifted, then hardened with suspicion.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

"Dr. Addis? Sorry to disturb you, and to arrive unannounced. My name is Arthur Valentine. Might I ask a few minutes of your time, if it isn't inconvenient?"  
"I know you. You're with the Security Service. You were at the funeral."  
"That's right."

She did not move to admit him, and they watched each other in loaded silence. He inclined his head and lowered his voice to a murmur,  
"It's regarding our inquiry into the circumstances surrounding the death of your husband."  
Her eyes widened, and she stepped back to allow him into her office. She closed the door and turned to face him.  
"I didn't think anyone else knew about it. Miss Pierce—." She stopped.  
"Only her immediate superior, the Deputy Director, was informed. In light of… what's happened, he has asked Christopher Foyle to continue with the inquiry, and I am assisting him."  
At the mention of Foyle's name, Elizabeth Addis dropped her head and stared at the threadbare oriental carpet.  
"Mr. Foyle...has agreed to investigate?"  
"He has. If an injustice has been done, Dr. Addis, we are determined to discover it and correct it."  
She raised a hand to her mouth, and Valentine was momentarily alarmed that she might begin to weep. But she recovered and regained her composure, her hand falling to rest at her side.  
"Do you...need information? From me? ...Please, sit down, Mr. Valentine."

They settled onto the wood and leather chairs she kept for her students.  
"Thank-you. We hoped you might be able to clarify some puzzling details that we've encountered. Given your own work at the Cairo Office, you are, of course, in a unique position to shed some light."  
With his reference to SOE Cairo, Addis went still. Her guard up again, she asked him,  
"Where did you serve, Mr. Valentine?"  
"France." He answered without hesitation.  
"And…?"  
"Belgium."  
"And SOE Baker Street?"  
"Briefly. I was SIS."  
"What Section of SOE?"  
"_Err_...Is this pertinent?"  
"To me it is. And I still have security clearance."  
"Yes. _Why_ is that?" He asked pleasantly.  
"Because I attend international academic and diplomatic conferences. I am occasionally asked to observe certain other participants."  
Valentine nodded slowly, then answered her question,  
"I was in F and T Sections. ...Dr. Addis, I am not a communist - not a sympathizer, not a past or present Party member."  
"Others have said as much." She regarded him cynically.  
"Indeed."  
She watched him in silence.  
"Are...we at an impasse?"  
"I don't know that I can trust you."  
"What, if anything, can I do to reassure you?"  
After a brief hesitation she said,  
"Bring me a message from Mr. Foyle."  
"You trust him?"  
"Yes. I do."  
He allowed himself a small smile,  
"So do I."  
He got up and left her office without another word.

As soon as the door closed behind her visitor, Elizabeth rose up, placing a steadying hand on the chair back. The sense of mixed pain and elation rising in her heart was one she hadn't experienced in years. Ever since Hilda's funeral, and that withering, dismissive look from Mr. Foyle, she had been brooding despondently on an idea, described aptly in a quotation from a favourite novel, '_I know I shall probably never see him again, but I cannot bear to think that he is alive in the world and thinking ill of me.' * _

She stepped over to the window to watch the agent cross the quadrangle, avoiding puddles of melted snow, and pass through the gates. Foyle had sent her a messenger, but no message. He didn't wish to speak to her, yet had agreed to continue Hilda's investigation. It was, at least, something. A chance for redemption in his eyes. She would be patient.

To be continued...

* * *

**Footnote:** *Quote is actually from the 1995 film version of _Pride and Prejudice_.

**Note:** In SOE Baker Street, F and T Sections were France and Belgium respectively. SIS is the Secret Intelligence Service, also known as MI6, and is tasked with gathering foreign intelligence in support of national security, accountable to the Foreign Secretary.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 7

Adam Wainwright was surprised to receive a telephone call from his wife's former employer, and even more curious at the request for a meeting away from his parliamentary office. With some rearranging of his appointments he was able to accommodate the request, and they met at a nearby restaurant at midday. Having arrived first, he watched the older man shake out his umbrella and place it in the stand at the door. He thought Mr. Foyle was looking rather tired...no, subdued. As if something was weighing heavily on his mind.

Foyle brightened as they shook hands at the table,  
"This is very good of you, Adam. How's Sam?"  
"She's quite well, sir, thanks. Taking a course at the WI on the sewing machine."  
Foyle smiled fondly, remembering his wartime driver's determined expression whenever facing a mechanical challenge.  
"And I've been told to be sure to invite you to dinner tomorrow. We hope you'll accept."  
"I will. Very kind."

They took their seats, ordered, and then Foyle got down to business,  
"Look, _um_, as we've both signed the Official Secrets Act it's permissible for you to discuss this with me..." Foyle wasn't entirely certain this was true, but had decided to go ahead regardless.  
"In relation to a current investigation, I'd like to ask you some questions about your time at Bletchley Park, specifically 1943."

Adam was momentarily stunned, realising that Sam must have mentioned this to her boss after he'd foolishly hinted about his wartime work shortly after they'd met. He remained silent as their luncheon plates were brought and set on the table.  
"_Errr…_, right. I...definitely wasn't expecting that to be the topic of our conversation. ...1943?"  
"Yes, we're interested in signals sent to and from German field commanders in Yugoslavia. Not only the content, but names of analysts who had the responsibility for handling that intelligence."  
"Gosh…, let me think about that."  
"Take your time." Foyle gave him a patient look and had a bite of his lunch.

Wainwright was uncomfortable, but decided, since Foyle now worked for the Security Service and seemed to have some prior knowledge of the secret work — and was the most trustworthy person in the world, according to Sam — that he could cooperate.  
"Well, I remember there was some turnover of analysts, but that wasn't unusual. People were reassigned... or left for other War work."  
"Nothing unusual in 1943?"  
"If anything, personnel tended to stabilize in '43, now that I come to think of it. Specialists were recruited and placed. Some of the chaps I worked with were Bennett, Camfield, Humphreys, Cairncross. And nearby were Alan Turing, Gordon Welchman, Joan Clarke, Margaret Rock and John Jeffreys. Absolute geniuses."  
He smiled broadly, recollecting his wartime colleagues,  
"They were in Hut 6… That's where the Enigma code was broken."  
Although Foyle's expression showed that he had no idea what that meant, Adam warmed to his subject, and went on with enthusiasm, but keeping his voice down,  
"There was a major advance in our ability to decipher signals, late '43, early '44, when we got Colossus. It was a computing machine that could decode the Lorenz radio-teletype messages sent from German High Command in Berlin to field commanders all across occupied Europe…"  
Seeing Foyle's look of increasing alarm, he reined himself in, clearing his throat in embarrassment,  
"...I ...probably shouldn't have told you that."

Foyle brought the discussion back on topic,  
"Who worked in Yugoslav Section?"  
"Ah. There weren't 'country sections' at the source of the intelligence stream. Our sections were Military, Air and Naval. Signals intercepted at our Y-stations from the German Army and Air Force were decrypted in Hut 6 and sent to us in Hut 3 for translation, analysis, and indexing. Huts 8 and 4 handled Naval signals. After we deciphered them, the messages were written up as reports, sent on to SIS, MI6, SOE, and intelligence chiefs in government Ministries, then re-encrypted for radio transmission out to Special Liaison Units at the relevant field headquarters." *  
"I see."  
Foyle twitched his mouth in disappointment.  
Wainwright thought for a moment, then offered,  
"I no longer have security clearance, but John Cairncross, who was with us in '42 and '43, moved on to MI6 in '44. Section V. He's still there."  
"How do you know that?" Foyle asked in genuine surprise.  
Adam smiled grimly,  
"You only have to put your head in the door at the Special Forces Club to overhear all sorts of things you shouldn't know. Sam and I met Mr. Stafford there to thank him."  
Foyle rolled his eyes upwards and shook his head in mock dismay.  
Wainwright continued,  
"Cairncross may have access to archived reports, indexed by country, I should think. They'll all be classified or top secret, of course. ...I shouldn't ask, but... what does your investigation concern, specifically?"  
Foyle hesitated, then tilted his head confidentially,  
"We're looking into the death of an SOE Liaison Officer while on a mission in Yugoslavia. His personnel file has been tampered with; documents explaining his death have been removed."  
Adam looked suitably worried, and Foyle elaborated,  
"I've interviewed two former field agents who knew the man. They've alleged that SOE's Cairo headquarters had been infiltrated by a Soviet sleeper agent, who altered and suppressed signals from the field to favour the Yugoslav Communists. ...It was my thought that a comparison with German signals from the region might confirm or disprove this allegation."  
"You suspect a sleeper agent at Cairo may have murdered this man?"  
"Or a Communist Partisan member or sympathizer in the field, under instructions from the agent."

Wainwright considered all of this for some minutes as he ate, then leaned in closer,  
"We suspected a sleeper agent ourselves."  
"At Bletchley Park?"  
"Yes. Nothing was ever proved, no one named."  
"What gave rise to the suspicions?"  
"Well," he moved closer and lowered his voice, "...you see, the raw decrypts we got from Hut 6 were sent to be destroyed after translation. But occasionally the Wrens who received them would joke that we must be slacking off, saying there weren't as many that morning, or that afternoon. It was quite some time before we thought to ask them if they were being serious."  
"Someone was stealing the top secret papers from Hut 3?"  
"_Ultra_ secret. We began to suspect so."  
Facing Foyle's incredulous glare, he became defensive,  
"The decrypts were carted away in _wheelbarrows_. It was rather a busy place, staffed around the clock, hundreds of us, men and women. Colossus ran at thirty miles per hour spitting out reams of paper with decrypted signals. In February '43 when Huts 6 and 3 moved into D Block, they installed a conveyor belt from them to us that never stopped. It was noisy, hectic; people dropped out from nervous collapse."  
Foyle put up a placating hand,  
"No-no, I...understand."  
"Everyone was doing their job."  
"Of course."  
Wainwright shook his head, saying bitterly,  
"Sorry. The thought that one of us might have been a spy turns my stomach."

To be continued...

* * *

**Footnote:** *It is unlikely a person serving at Bletchley would understand the whole picture, or know where the decrypted and translated signals were sent after their own work on them. This is a bit of dramatic licence.

**Historical** **Note**: John Cairncross, one of the infamous Cambridge Five Communist moles, would stuff the raw decrypts into his trousers, transfer them to his bag at the local train station men's room, and pass them on to his Soviet contact in London. This was not terribly harmful, as Britain was sharing much of this intelligence in the form of reports with Stalin, except that now Stalin knew the British had broken the German codes.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 8

"She won't talk to me. She wants you."

Valentine's words as he walked breezily into Foyle's office may have bordered on flippant, but their sudden effect on Foyle was profound. Valentine would swear his face had reddened as he turned away, pretending to hold a document he'd been reading under the pale morning light from the window. And he could see in profile his colleague's mouth working as he chewed on his lips, wrestling with a strong emotion.

As discretion was the better part, he pretended not to notice. However, combining this unmistakable agitation with the reaction of Mrs. Addis to the news that Foyle was taking on the case...added up to a prior personal connection he'd been unaware of. Far be it from him to pry into anyone else's private life — well, unofficially at least — but this was quite interesting.  
"We can schedule another meeting for tomorrow morning."  
"...Right." His colleague acknowledged the news with seeming indifference.  
Valentine waited a beat before mercifully changing the subject,  
"How did you manage with _your_ interviews?"  
Foyle mastered himself sufficiently to face Valentine and reply,  
"_Errr_, productive. Informative. The suggestion was made that we speak with a John Cairncross at MI6. How receptive d'you think he might be?"  
Valentine raised his eyebrows in faint hope,  
"They're never overly friendly towards us. I'll pull our file on him so we're fore-armed. What do you want to ask him?"  
"For access to archived German Army signals from Yugoslavia."  
That gave Valentine pause, as he hadn't thought of it himself,  
"That's a very good idea, Foyle. Is that his department?"  
Foyle answered with a rising inflection,  
"He's in Section V, apparently."  
"Counter-intelligence." Valentine considered a moment, then suggested,  
"...We might have better success if Sir Alec made the request, at a higher level. I'll see him today."  
Foyle gave a nod, bowing to his colleague's judgement.

There was a moment's silence between them, then Foyle offered,  
"MacInnis gave strong support to the suspicion of a sleeper agent at SOE Cairo. Rees indicated Addis knew Cairo was influencing the shift to the Partisans."  
"Well, if there _was_ a sleeper agent, he was completely successful."  
He paused, then asked pointedly,  
"Who gave you Cairncross's name?"

Foyle looked down to rearrange some papers on his desk.  
"Prefer not to say. A reliable witness." He looked up again with a bland expression.  
Valentine half-smiled,  
"You'll make a spy yet, Foyle."

* * *

Foyle exchanged greetings with Adam at the door of the now familiar prefab home in Peckham. After handing over a gift bottle of wine along with his coat and hat, he preceded his host through to the sitting room where he was soon met by an effusive Sam.  
"Sir! Perfect timing! Dinner's almost ready. I'm so glad you accepted, ...Christopher."  
Foyle blinked in affable surprise as she tried out this new form of address and approached him at speed. Clearly, having embraced and kissed him once, after her official resignation, she meant to make a habit of it, and now she held him close for a long moment. He accepted graciously, even putting an arm lightly around her still slender frame.

It hadn't been very many days since they'd last seen each other, but it was clear to Foyle that Sam had decided to embrace her impending motherhood as well. There was natural colour in her cheeks, she'd lost the gaunt and worried aspect that had so concerned him since their renewed association, and she'd arranged her hair in a softer style, befitting a first-time mother-to-be. She looked...happy.

"Something smells very good." He cast his eyes towards the kitchen, offering the remark by way of compliment.

"Oh, the usual, you know: 'Tomato soup, sole, roast chicken with roast potatoes, peas and sprouts, trifle and cream, cheese and biscuits and coffee.'"  
As she listed the unheard of quantities of delectables, Foyle's smile grew, knowing she was referring to the recent newspaper story of a Gallup poll that asked the British public to name their no-expense-spared fantasy meal.  
He genuinely laughed, and said,  
"I'll have the sole. You two eat the rest."  
"Actually, we're having Woolton pie."  
"Delightful."  
They all settled into seats, accepting glasses of the wine Adam had poured. Foyle crossed his legs comfortably.  
"...You've taken up the sewing machine, Adam tells me."  
"Yes! Well, that is, I plan to, when we can get one," she glanced at her husband.  
"_Err_, soon, Sam." Wainwright assured her.  
"I'm learning to use one at the WI. The tricky part in getting an even stitch is holding a consistent pressure on the foot pedal."  
Foyle smiled from behind his wine glass, then suggested,  
"W'oh, you're well experienced at that. Just imagine I'm beside you complaining about your speed." He aimed a wide-eyed look at her.  
And that made Sam giggle.

The evening continued very agreeably, though Sam observed during dinner that Foyle fell into moments of worried introspection several times. As they finished their custard, Adam was called away by the telephone ringing.  
Sam seized on the moment of privacy to say,  
"You promised me you'd be all right, Christopher."  
Foyle pursed his lips and set his napkin on the table,  
"Didn't _promise_. Said I might be."  
She studied him before asking gently,  
"...Were you able to get away to Hastings? For the anniversary?"  
He closed his eyes, moved that she would remember, and smiled,  
"I was, yes. Andrew came down on a later train. We walked together to the cemetery."  
"It's fifteen years now, isn't it."  
"It is."  
He thought, sadly — but didn't say out loud — that his wife had been gone now more years than they'd been married. The pain of losing her, the ache of missing her, was something that no longer overtook him; he could choose when to visit those feelings. Except in February.  
"_Em_..., Hastings was just the same. Andrew said he'd like to live there again, if he could manage it with his work."  
"What about you? Will you go home?"  
"I...do miss the seaside. —And the river."  
He had smiled fondly at her again, but soon fell into a pensive frown.  
"There's something else bothering you. I can tell, Christopher." Sam enjoyed saying his name, signalling a closer friendship between them. It felt right, in this new phase of their long association.  
Foyle attempted a half-hearted defensive scowl, which Sam ignored with a look of sympathetic appeal, and he gave up his usual reticence,  
"Yyyes, it's true."  
For once, she waited patiently for him to go on.  
"I...may have been unfair to someone...who didn't deserve it. I need to apologise."  
"Oh. That _is_ difficult. Someone at work?"  
"Nno, someone I...respect."  
Their eyes met and, realising he'd just insulted everyone at the Security Service, they both broke into wry smiles.  
Sam became serious again and asked in her direct way,  
"Is it Dr. Addis?"  
Foyle was dumbfounded,  
"How…?"  
"Well, at the funeral, she stood back from the gathering at the graveside, and you didn't greet her at all. It struck me as odd at the time, since you'd shaken hands with everyone else."  
Foyle winced at the reminder of his public display of coldness towards Elizabeth Addis.  
"Would it be of any help to tell me about it?"  
He did, explaining, in only the level of detail necessary, first her expert help in the two previous cases, then his discovery of the part Addis had played in the wartime Plato investigation, her reluctant act of spying on him and her ties to Hilda Pierce, and finally the truth of her underlying motives regarding her late husband.  
"Her husband may have been murdered? And someone had accused him as a traitor?"  
"Mmmore than accused, it would seem, because his personnel file is blackmarked. But all pertinent documents are missing."  
"How dreadful for her. The poor woman. ...How is the investigation going?"  
Foyle sighed,  
"Frankly, I've more information than I know what to do with. Files on every field agent and reports on every mission. ...But it isn't getting us any closer to an answer."  
"It's just you and Mr. Valentine? ...Perhaps you need another team member."  
Sam tilted up her chin and eyed him meaningfully.  
Foyle shook his head,  
"Oh, no. You've got more important things to do." He gave her an indulgent smile.  
"I know," she agreed, with only a slight pout.  
She pondered for a moment, then said brightly,  
"Perhaps it would help to go back to the way you used to work - Police methods! Find the last person who spoke to the victim...and interview _them_."  
Foyle looked her in the eyes, pressing his mouth into an upside down smile,  
"That's a very good suggestion."  
Sam reached across the table and put her hand over his, asking gently,  
"...And when will you see Dr. Addis?"  
"In the morning."

* * *

To be continued...


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 9

Valentine had wondered at Foyle's insistence that they walk to University College, but it was at least a dry, if overcast, early March morning and not uncomfortably cold. His colleague was even more subdued than usual, answering only in monosyllables.  
Nonetheless Valentine persisted in sustaining a conversation,  
"I spoke to Sir Alec about the German signals. I mentioned Cairncross, and his wartime counterpart at SOE Baker Street, Kim Philby. Philby was in Yugoslav Section. They're both at MI6 now, it seems… Sir Alec said he'd make the request on our behalf..."  
Foyle roused himself to ask,  
"'Kim'? After the boy in the Kipling novel?"  
"One might suppose so. At any rate he was born in the Punjab. His father was a member of the Indian Civil Service. Schooled in England, read History and Economics at Cambridge."  
"You're remarkably well-informed."  
"I worked with him at Baker Street. Not the same section, but we were acquainted."  
"Knew him at Cambridge?"  
"No, different years. ...I'm older than my boyish good looks let on, y'know."  
He watched for Foyle to react, and wasn't disappointed by the subtle smile.  
But soon their conversation lagged again, and Foyle's manner signalled his intense preoccupation. So as they walked, passing empty lots or scorched remains of bombed out shops and office buildings — testimony to the disruption and destruction of so many lives — Valentine meditated on the grieving hearts of those who bore the burden of survival, and also, more practically, on why they hadn't brought any files or notes, or at least a list of clear questions to pursue.

For his part, Foyle was steeling himself for the meeting, calculating what the woman's attitude towards him might be. Knowing the truth now of Elizabeth Addis's anguished situation, he understood that she had, in effect, been forced to become a sleeper agent inside SOE London for her own personal mission, and had acted the part even with him.  
'_I was SOE. You didn't ask questions. You did what you were told.'  
_Coming from a person of such obvious intelligence, independence and capability, this had rung false more than anything else she had said to him in that last meeting.  
Sensible of the unsympathetic, even callous way he had parted from her, Foyle had fully expected that she would have rejected him, would have re-evaluated him as unworthy of her time. Valentine's news yesterday that she was willing to work with him had come as an immense relief, and gave him courage for the apology he was anxious to make to her.

They navigated their way through the college building and, just as Valentine was about to knock at her office door, Foyle pivoted towards his colleague, head bowed,  
"Let me have a word first, Arthur, if you don't mind."  
"...Not at all." Valentine knocked and stepped back a pace.  
He had anticipated Foyle might have a personal agenda of his own, however, he now found himself in the slightly comical dilemma of whether to wait in the hall or accompany his colleague inside.

When she opened the door Dr. Addis's grey eyes moved swiftly from Valentine to Foyle, widening almost in alarm. She was clearly disconcerted to find Foyle on her doorstep in person. After all, she had asked only for a message from him.  
Foyle came forward with determination, she allowed them in, and then they were all inside the book-lined study. Valentine moved off to stand looking out of the window, giving the couple a semblance of privacy.  
Foyle straightened his back and faced her, regretful of the worry he saw in her expression.  
"Dr. Addis, I made assumptions about you without knowing the full story. I was wrong. I...believe, had I been in your place, I'd have done the same thing. And I apologise."  
With tears of relief welling up, she answered,  
"I had hoped - _had dearly hoped_ \- you would understand."  
"I do." He reassured her.  
Their eyes met and held, exchanging gratitude and compassion.  
She offered him her hand both in apology and forgiveness, and he took it, holding on to it for a prolonged moment.

Valentine, pretending to be fascinated with the scene beyond the window, cleared his throat quietly and murmured,  
"Right then."  
Foyle took the hint, and proposed that they got down to business, setting chairs in a close circle to discuss the progress of the investigation. Valentine sat prepared with his notebook and pen. Foyle led the interview.

"Would you agree that the evidence indicates a sustained interference with field operations and signals intelligence, by one or more persons at SOE Cairo, to discredit the Yugoslav Royalist Chetniks and to promote the Communist Partisans?"  
Recognizing the formal demeanour of an experienced investigator, Addis saw in Foyle the high ranking police officer he had been until last year, before he was recruited into the Security Service. Her hopes for a proper resolution grew.  
"Yes."  
"And do you believe that this pro-communist agenda is linked to your husband's death?"  
"Yes." Her answer was definite, despite a breathless delivery that revealed the emotion behind it.  
"Do you have any knowledge of accusations made or charges laid against your husband, or when this may have occurred?"  
"No. I only became aware of that when Miss Pierce showed me his personnel file with the black-margined paper."  
"When was that?"  
"September of 1944."  
"Are you aware that all documents related to his death, and to any charges or proceedings against your husband, have… disappeared from his file?"  
"Yes, I am. As was Miss Pierce."  
"Neither of you ever saw documents related to accusations or charges?"  
"No. They weren't in his file at the Security Service, and Miss Pierce could learn nothing about charges laid against him from any other military or intelligence branch."  
Valentine's pen scratched rapidly across his notebook as both men frowned in concern.  
Foyle continued,  
"Are you aware of a note in your own file describing your husband's death as resulting...from a car accident?"  
Elizabeth's eyes showed a flash of outrage, instantly brought under control.  
"No. I was not aware of that."  
"Do you have… any information as to the circumstances in which your husband met his death?"  
"No. I only know that it happened near the Montenegrin coast, some time between December 15th and 22nd, 1943. ...At the same time, with very little notice, I was transferred under protest from Cairo to SOE London. I left believing he was missing, and four days after my arrival in England… I was informed that he was dead."  
She swallowed hard in an effort to keep her composure.  
Deeply troubled and working to maintain a professionally neutral tone, Foyle asked,  
"In your opinion..._how_ is the interference from SOE Cairo connected to your husband's death?"

Dr. Addis took in a long breath,  
"Thomas and I had gathered strong evidence, and some testimony, of ongoing interference with support operations, and with intelligence signals from Liaison Officers and field agents. He was preparing to bring that evidence to the Prime Minister's top aides attending the Cairo Conference at the American Embassy in late November of 1943, or, if unsuccessful there, to the Tehran Conference that was to follow."  
Valentine interjected,  
"At the Soviet Embassy?" He blew out a stream of air between pursed lips, at the daring, or foolishness, of the plan.  
With impatience at the interruption, Foyle momentarily squeezed his eyes shut, then asked,  
"He was unable to do that?"  
"Thomas was due for leave, but SOE refused to arrange a flight, said there were no planes available. Information about boats or ships near the Montenegrin coast was withheld. ...I attempted to get to the Conference in his place - I'd been SOE's representative on the planning committee, so this shouldn't have attracted notice - but I was waylaid. My car was disabled, and the taxi I hailed took me in the opposite direction. I escaped in traffic, but was followed and… intimidated...by three men. I was held captive until all the conference participants had left the city."

Foyle's respect and admiration increased as he listened to her recite the bare facts of what must have been a harrowing experience.  
"When I returned to work, everyone behaved as if I'd taken a few days holiday. I couldn't trust anyone..."  
She paused, her only sign of strain was to look across to the pitcher of water on her desk. Valentine got up to get her a glass.  
"Thank-you. ...I'd had a trusted friend in the signals room, a wireless transmitter operator, who would send and receive coded messages between Thomas and me, but I found he had been suddenly transferred."  
"How had you managed that — the messages?"  
"Well, early on, before things became...dark, we'd thought that having copies of Thomas's reports and signals would be a great resource, an _aide mémoire_, along with his personal diaries...," her voice faltered briefly, "... for the book he'd write after the War -." She brushed away an unwanted tear, "One historian's views of the modern struggle over Yugoslavia. Our friend was able to arrange that, ...and later, further help as necessary. The three of us had devised a code for our personal messages."  
"_Em…_, do you still have those reports and signals?"  
"Well, ...yes." She seemed puzzled by the question. "Haven't you seen them?"  
Foyle and Valentine exchanged a look.  
"No."  
"But Hilda had copies."  
"In her office we found only one box of field reports…"  
Elizabeth frowned and her eyes darted as she thought over what might have happened.  
"Oh, god, yes! She told me last June that she had removed everything for safekeeping - several weeks before William Chambers was exposed as an operative for the Soviets."  
"Christ." Valentine muttered, eyeing Foyle, "I bet she did."  
"You've gotten this far with hardly any information!"  
The realisation left her impressed, but she put her hands up to her cheeks in dismay,  
"I'm so sorry, you've undoubtedly gone over ground that we've already thoroughly covered."  
Foyle said in sudden alarm,  
"I've interviewed Michael Rees and Roy MacInnis. Would that be a concern?"  
"No. They're all right."  
Elizabeth found herself charmed by Foyle's ready admission of a possible error, in contrast to most men of rank she'd worked with.  
Valentine asked,  
"Where would Miss Pierce have moved these materials?"  
"I should think to her own flat."  
Foyle admitted,  
"I've...been to her flat, but, _er_, was focused on finding indications as to why she'd been shot. It was very spartan. Didn't notice a substantial archive of documents."  
For the first time, Elizabeth showed the ghost of a smile, murmuring,  
"I'm sure she wouldn't have left them in a wardrobe."  
And for the second time, Valentine saw Foyle's ears go pink as he arched an eyebrow, evidently amused by her little joke at his expense.  
Dr. Addis advised,  
"We should go there."

To be continued...


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 10

In the cab, Valentine sat facing Dr. Addis and Foyle. He unobtrusively observed how each had claimed a seat close by a door, leaving an expanse of empty space, and a subtle current of tension, between them.  
It was several minutes before Foyle broke the silence, suddenly dropping his hand from his lips and turning towards Elizabeth,  
"Forgive me, Dr. Addis — when you were abducted in Cairo, did you have the documents with you, outlining the information you intended to present to the Prime Minister's aides?"  
"I did. The three men took them from me, examined them in another room, ...and then returned them to me."  
"Returned them all?"  
"Yes. ...As if they were of no consequence."  
Dr. Addis bowed her head and intently examined her hands in her lap.  
Foyle understood from this that the men had likely intended to kill her, but had later received other instructions. Which undoubtedly had led to her husband's death.

Valentine lifted his brows,  
"_That_ must not have been very—."  
Foyle silenced him with a sharp glare.  
A chastened Valentine turned away to watch out of the side window, and after a moment discreetly ran a finger under his collar.  
Five minutes of silence and three miles of London passed by before Foyle asked, somewhat more lightly,  
"Will Hudson. Does he figure in this at all?"  
"Oh, I wouldn't think so."  
Grateful for the change of topic, Addis attempted a fleeting smile, and was as dismissive of the man as MacInnis had been.  
"He was…, how shall I put it? A soldier of fortune. No particular loyalty to either side, in Yugoslavia. No particular loyalty full stop."  
She shook her head in disapproval, rolling her eyes upwards.  
"He was on a lark. ...SOE seemed to attract that sort."  
Elizabeth glanced apologetically at the man opposite.  
"Present company excepted, Mr. Valentine."  
He smiled slightly in acknowledgement.  
Finishing with a sigh, she allowed,  
" ...But I suppose he could be effective, when it suited him."  
"Nnnot a candidate for our sleeper agent, then?"  
"He was never in a position to wield much influence, and as I said, had no loyalty to a cause greater than himself."  
She thought for a moment, then recalled,  
"He came to see me in the Spring of '44. Offered his sympathy, carried on as if Thomas had been his best pal. Asked some odd questions."

Foyle filed that detail away, as the cab had now stopped outside the block of flats where Hilda Pierce had lived.  
On the pavement, Foyle asked Elizabeth,  
"You've been here before?" He retrieved from an inner pocket the copies of Hilda's keys that he'd been given when their owner was in hospital.  
"Yes, I have. Not for many, many months."  
"I've _never_ been here," Valentine put in, unasked, gazing up at the Art Deco façade.  
The three of them entered the building, Valentine leading the ascent of the stairway, murmuring ironically under his breath,  
"_Cherchez la femme_."

* * *

Foyle unlocked the door to the flat, stood aside and let Elizabeth walk ahead down the hallway and into the simply-furnished sitting room. She found herself instantly overcome by a deep sadness for its missing inhabitant, her solitary life, and her devotion to a service that would soon forget and carry on without her. Unfastening her burgundy coat, Elizabeth was surprised by Foyle chivalrously helping her out of it. On impulse for his kindness she touched her fingers to his hand on her shoulder, then moved away to begin the search.

For his part, Foyle had noticed her emotion — even, in his own way, shared it — but knew it was important that they all stay focused on the task they'd come here to do. After removing his own coat and leaving it next to hers on the armchair, he set about on his search for the collection of documents, intending to look through every kitchen cupboard, and then inspect the hall closets.

Valentine had paused at the end of the hallway, looking over the sitting room for evidence of his late colleague's off-duty, private persona, but found it disappointingly lacking in artefacts: a few framed prints and photographs; a fussy, old-fashioned little writing desk with a modern typewriter crammed up against its pigeonholes; a wireless cabinet. The wall that featured the ungenerous fireplace was a blank expanse, with only a small bevelled-edge mirror hung above. A drinks stand was placed out of the way, near the semi-circular corner window.

He added his black overcoat to the armchair, then retreated up the hallway to the bedroom. He went straight in to open the wardrobe, and half-smiled: Dr. Addis was correct. However that didn't stop him from reaching past the clothes, tapping on the back wall and checking for hidden compartments. He couldn't quite bring himself to open the dresser drawers, and saw no point in feeling around the tiny shelves of the bedside table. Nothing under the mattress, and only an empty travel bag under the bed itself.

Dr. Addis had taken on the linen cupboard, bathroom, and a utility closet that held a hoover, broom, mop and bucket and cleaning supplies. It was hard to imagine Hilda using them. Such a prosaic task compared to saving the world from fascism. But perhaps she'd had a woman in to 'do' for her, as the BBC Light Programme put it.

A thorough search had yielded nothing and the three gathered again in the sitting room. Elizabeth had found Hilda's spare walking stick, glossy black with silver tip and handle, and carried it with her pensively.  
"...A storage room, perhaps, in the basement or attic of the building?" Foyle suggested.  
"Not likely to let such things out of her sight," she mused, then sat down on the worn sofa, Hilda's habitual seat, and studied the room from that angle.  
"She would, however, keep them out of a visitor's...or intruder's...sight…"

Elizabeth looked across at the fireplace, the skirting board and floor, and pointed with the cane,  
"A chair — perhaps that one at the writing desk — has been moved over here repeatedly, and has scratched the floor in odd places."  
The two men saw the marks and nodded their agreement with her observation, though privately each wondered if it had any real significance.  
Her eyes travelled slowly up the bare wall to the shallow-coffered ceiling, and fixed with interest on the decorative medallion. Foyle and Valentine, standing at either end of the sofa, followed her gaze. The medallion was bronze in colour, and had been ill-placed above the room, much nearer to the fireplace wall than the wall behind the sofa. Elizabeth's eyes narrowed in speculation.

She got to her feet, tentatively raised the stick over her head and pressed its tip into the medallion's centre. They heard a click, and Valentine jumped back as a large panel of the ceiling swung down silently in a descent controlled by small telescoping pneumatic cylinders. It came to rest against the wall above the fireplace, its stout hinges exposed at the top. The inner surface of the nearly eight-by-five-foot panel, now in view, held a neat arrangement of a dozen shallow file holders, a cork board, a European map, and a thin desktop that would fold down onto two front legs.

Valentine gave a low whistle of admiration.  
Foyle, however, was frowning, suspicious that they'd been made to waste time searching the flat.  
"You _knew_ this was here?"  
She turned her head to look at him, eyebrows lifted in frank disappointment,  
"Certainly not. The last time I was here, the ceiling was plain plaster. Hilda wouldn't have given a _moment's_ thought to redecorating."

Valentine tried to suppress a smile, but then positively grinned to see his astute colleague out-performed, and tetchy to boot. To his credit, Foyle conceded that she'd bested him, with a self-conscious shift of his jaw, a nod that might have been a bow, and a courteous,  
"Well done."

Valentine stepped forward to have a closer examination, a hand on his hip,  
"...So this is Miss Pierce's 'command centre.' What do you make of the items on the bulletin board, Dr. Addis?"

Foyle joined them to discuss the papers pinned to the board, the notes and comments Hilda had appended to them, and discovered a name new to their investigation, a Liaison Officer, Major Kenneth Alderton. Elizabeth was puzzled.  
"Alderton...died in April of '42. His entire mission was murdered. It happened a month or so after Thomas and I arrived in Cairo."  
"Murdered?" Foyle asked.  
"Not 'killed in action'?" Valentine added.  
She shook her head,  
"His party had landed far from the fighting front, and hadn't yet made contact with either the Chetniks or the Partisans when their signals stopped. After their bodies were found, the two sides accused each other, or blamed it on bandits, but nothing was ever proven."  
"Was there anything out of the ordinary about his mission?"  
"Not as far as I know. They were bringing intelligence…, support…, ammunition."  
They put that anomaly aside for the moment.

Examining the European map, they found it was in fact only the outer one, covering a set of more detailed large scale maps of every Balkan region. Hilda had added small adhesive coloured dots, some of them clustered together, to the maps of Serbia, Dalmatia, Montenegro and Albania. They would need to find the key to the coloured dots to understand their significance, however Foyle reached into an inner pocket and unfolded the chart of field agent movements.  
"Think this may be related."  
Elizabeth moved closer beside him to study the chart, compared it to the markers on the maps, and slowly turned to him, eyes glowing with admiration.  
Foyle blinked and shifted his attention back to the chart,  
"_Er_, can't take credit for this. It was made for us by Charlotte Brown."  
Her face brightened even more for his proper recognition of the researcher, and she observed,  
"Well, it would appear you and Hilda were thinking along the same lines."

To be continued...


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Historical note:** The meeting of British Liaison Officers from both Chetnik and Partisan missions, and the brawl between them, actually took place in Bari, Italy, just across the Adriatic Sea from Montenegro.

**Thanks:** Gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 11

Dr. Addis uncovered one of the maps and tapped with an index finger on the western coastline,  
"The largest gathering of agents, of course, was here in Montenegro in mid-December '43 when Forces Command ceased all support operations with the Chetniks. One of these markers represents Thomas, and one is Michael Rees. What other names are shown in Miss Brown's chart?"

Foyle consulted the document's timeline for mid-December.  
Valentine had reached up eagerly towards the top row of file holders, but paused to catch Dr. Addis's eye, and gestured with an open hand,  
"_Em… _May I?"  
"Yes, of course. Everything. Please do."  
He pulled all the documents from the top left file holder, looked about for a suitable work surface, and laid them on the little sideboard under the kitchen serving-hatch. After a moment he announced with excitement,

"These are the German signals! She's annotated them with references to signals from field agents…"  
His voice faded as he became engrossed in his reading. However the low sideboard quickly proved an awkward height for the near six-foot-tall man; he soon claimed the extra chair from the alcove, and sat sideways beside the materials.

Foyle, who had watched their exchange with mild amusement, turned his attention back to the information in his hands and answered Dr. Addis's question,  
"..._Er_… Liaison Officers with the Chetniks were Major Davies, Brigadier Armstrong, Captain Purvis, Captain Rees, and an American OSS officer, Captain Seitz. ...Agents who arrived from Partisan Support Missions were Captain Deakin, Colonel Bailey and the American OSS officer, Captain Benson."

Elizabeth listened thoughtfully and added,  
"Many officers were accompanied by nationalist field agents, and by their wireless transmitter operators. Any one of them might have been a fellow traveller. We have their names in the various Mission reports."

Foyle tilted his head before reminding her,  
"...And then there was Major Will Hudson."

She shook her head, slightly exasperated,  
"Hudson. His Operation was one of the earliest landed in Yugoslavia, and it was so loosely defined that he seemed to travel wherever he pleased, from various Chetnik headquarters to sundry Partisan camps and back again."

"Seems to have been left to his own devices. ...Doesn't that strike you as..._em_...?"

"Not particularly. Before the War he had worked in Belgrade as a consultant mining engineer, spoke fluent Serbo-Croat and knew the country better than his SOE commanders. As one of the first on the ground, his mission was to discover which groups, of whatever ilk, were organising the best opposition to the enemy, and how we could support them."

"He was never absorbed into any of the later, more strictly defined missions."

"No." She agreed.

Foyle grimaced in dissatisfaction,  
"I'd like to interview him."

Elizabeth lifted her brows as if to say, 'suit yourself,' but, turning away to study the map again, replied,  
"Certainly. ...You'll have to find out where he is. I'd be surprised if he'd put down roots anywhere."

Foyle couldn't help noticing an unexpected trace of scorn in her words. He wondered again about those 'odd questions' she'd mentioned just before they'd gotten out of the taxi. However, he chose to leave aside the topic of Hudson for now.

Instead, Foyle stood beside Elizabeth in front of Hilda's board and asked,  
"Is the information here that you'd planned to present to the Prime Minister's aides at the Cairo Conference?"

She sorted through several of the file holders, found the papers all together in the lower right, and, lacking a more formal conference table, carried them to the sofa. Foyle hesitated briefly before joining her, the files lying on the seat between them. She took up the first document and began by explaining its importance.

Valentine left his chair at the sideboard and crossed in front of them to retrieve another group of files. On his return pass he glanced covertly at Foyle, and observed that, despite his respectful attention to Dr. Addis, there was a tinge of uneasiness in his colleague's eyes. And he, too, wondered what the woman was keeping from them.

* * *

A half-hour's reading and consultation, and a comparison with the German signals annotated by Hilda, was enough to construct a sure case to present as proof of pro-Communist interference. And by extension, a motive for eliminating Captain Thomas Addis. Valentine had carried his chair over to face the sofa, and the three discussed their findings.

Foyle placed his hand on the dossier the Addises had compiled,  
"_This_...is essentially circumstantial evidence, except for the testimony your husband had recorded from five agents whose signals were definitely altered. However, together with _these..._,"  
He laid his hand on the files containing the German signals, but Valentine broke in and finished his sentence,  
"...We have undeniable proof of repeated interference with field intelligence at Cairo."

Ignoring Foyle's displeased, wide-eyed stare, he went on,  
"German field commanders name Chetnik leaders, such as Major Keserović of the Rasina Corps, or Trifunović in central Serbia, as being at the front of organised forces opposing them in '42 and '43. They received this intelligence from members of the Occupied Yugoslav Government and from other collaborators.  
"Whereas signals and reports coming from SOE Cairo for Allied Command, at the time of these engagements, name and give credit to Partisan leaders who, quite clearly, were not in the region at the time.  
"Miss Pierce has noted there are even instances of signals from Cairo sent deliberately to be intercepted by German field commanders with outright lies about Chetnik intentions, including reports of collaboration with the Italians, which were sent on to German High Command, and then in turn intercepted and decrypted here in England."

As Valentine paused for breath, Foyle explained,  
"However, Miss Pierce records that it was also the case that German Marshall Wilhelm List, General Franz Boehme, Lieutenant General Paul Bader, and their field commanders, did not always know which resistance group they were engaged with and tended to refer to any and all Yugoslav fighters as 'Partisans' - which compromises our argument. ...Frankly, I'm disappointed the Germans weren't more precise in these matters."

Valentine smirked agreeably at his colleague's remark, and also at the realisation that he had said it to amuse the lady.  
Elizabeth gave him a sidelong glance and a half-smile.

Foyle looked encouragingly at her before continuing,  
"Yet, despite all this evidence…" He shook his head in mild frustration,  
"..._who_ can we name as the Soviet sleeper agent?"

Valentine added with rather less delicacy,  
"...And where is the proof that anyone ordered the assassination of Addis?"

Foyle had to give him another hard look, to which he responded with a wince of compunction and mumbled,  
"...I beg your pardon, Dr. Addis."

A quick, tight smile covered any hurt from his blunder, and Elizabeth replied,  
"I do have a name in mind."

To be continued...

* * *

**Author's Note:  
**For dramatic purposes, and with modern hindsight, I have taken the side of the Chetniks, but there is such confusion and controversy around histories of wartime Yugoslavia that it is difficult to know the truth as to agreements around and acts of collaboration, or even whether such acts were truly egregious, under the circumstances. And this is due to the misinformation put out by various sides, especially SOE Cairo, and owing to historians who take various reports as accurate, which may in fact be questionable propaganda. Residual lingering animosities from this era continue the dissemination of doubtful information.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Gratitude as always to the sagacious GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the story.

* * *

**Chapter 12**

As the two investigators waited expectantly, Elizabeth Addis rose from her seat and began pacing slowly and thoughtfully in front of Hilda's work board, looking very much the university lecturer that she was.  
Foyle found himself admiring the neat, heather-grey, pinstriped suit - and the figure of the woman in it - but quickly brought his focus back to her words.

"I presume you've studied the personnel files of the men in command at the Cairo office, and I would imagine no one has jumped out as suspicious — well, other than Keble, who was certifiably mad."  
She glanced over at them, then continued,  
"We are looking, in fact, for someone who, while not appearing to exercise influence, not having a position of accountable responsibility, authority or decision-making, served as a 'central clearing house' for every operational decision that came from above to be passed down the proper channels for action; and, as well, for all information and intelligence coming in from field agents and Liaison Officers to be forwarded up the chain of command. ...Someone who could reasonably have access to almost every aspect of Cairo operations, in the course of his normal duties. Someone who became a trusted functionary to be relied on in every matter. Someone who began at a low rank and, by making himself agreeable, innocuous, and unambitiously indispensable, was regularly promoted. ...There was really only one man in that position."

She paused — not for dramatic effect, but from a lingering anxiety to name the man out loud.  
Foyle, having listened and watched Dr. Addis with attentive respect throughout this prologue, on seeing her unconsciously biting her lower lip in hesitation, felt a rather unprofessional surge of attraction for her. He immediately subdued the impulse and hid his emotion with a serious-minded frown.

Believing she could, indeed, trust and rely on these two good men, Elizabeth squared her shoulders and faced them.  
"His name is...Norman Klugeman."

Foyle narrowed his eyes in interest, recalling the particularly sparse personnel file of a nearly nondescript bureaucrat. Valentine remained outwardly passive but his gaze intensified.

Dr. Addis continued,  
"At Cairo, Klugeman began as a mere staff clerk. But within half a year he was promoted to captain, was soon invited to be present at every meeting, oversaw all communications around intelligence signals, briefed all incoming field agents, and, with his apparent wide-ranging knowledge of international affairs and a facility for learning languages, became a trusted advisor to Brigadier Keble on every aspect of operations. By the Spring of 1944, when SOE moved to Bari, Italy, he held the rank of Major."

Dr. Addis resumed her slow pacing as she spoke,  
"Late last year Hilda discovered an old compilation file on recruits in training who had previously come to the notice of the Security Service. As early as December of 1940, MI5 had sent a letter to Aldershot advising that Private Norman Klugeman of the Royal Army Service Corps was 'not recommended for secret work.' It would seem certain from this that there was a pre-war file about him and his activities. Unfortunately many of those early records were destroyed at Wormwood Scrubs during an air raid. In that letter MI5 also requested that Aldershot keep an eye on him and report back. There was no response to that request, and MI5 inexplicably waited nearly a year to follow up on it.

"Klugeman had left Aldershot with a draft for the Middle East in June of '41. He made himself useful in Cairo and by February of '42 he had been hired by SOE. A short time after that another letter was sent by MI5 to the effect that it would 'seem inadvisable that Klugeman should be employed in secret work.' But by then he had become a favourite of Brigadier Keble. Keble wrote back that Klugeman was 'hardworking, trustworthy and loyal,' and that he was 'entirely satisfied with his work and that he should be extraordinarily surprised if he should ever have to eat the above words.'"

"Seems a rather mild warning from MI5." Valentine commented.

"Indeed. Ambiguous, uninformative and rather passive."

She glanced at Foyle before continuing,

"...I've done some digging at universities here and on the continent and I found that Klugeman was at the forefront of student communist activities in the 1930s, that he recruited students to be members of the Party. He was an active Party member at Cambridge, and when he moved to Paris in 1935, ostensibly to do postgraduate research, he was in fact working for the World Student Assembly for Peace, Freedom and Culture, an organisation controlled by the Comintern. In 1938 he toured the world with another Communist Party member, and they spoke in front of large student gatherings in America and in the Far East. He met Mao in China and Nehru in India."

Foyle and Valentine exchanged looks of astonishment.

"It is quite likely that he now holds an important position in the Communist Party of Great Britain. Undoubtedly he has regular contact with the new Soviet organisation that replaced the Comintern in '43."  
Concluding her report, Elizabeth clasped her hands behind her back and addressed her audience of two,  
"None of these activities were or are illegal. However, in the context of a possible sleeper agent influencing wartime Allied policy in Yugoslavia...they are highly indicative."

Valentine offered,  
"We can certainly find out his position in the Party, and whether he has a regular Russian contact here."

"Thank you, Mr. Valentine."

"Is Klugeman here in England?" Foyle asked.

"For a year he worked for UNRRA — the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration — on their mission to Yugoslavia. He left Belgrade and returned to London in July."

"Left during the show trials." Valentine commented cynically.

"And before the executions. Yes." She confirmed.

Foyle was sympathetic but dissatisfied,  
"Other than the very significant implications of his Communist Party affiliations, is there... any _hard evidence_ of Norman Klugeman himself acting directly to suppress or alter intelligence signals?"

"Well, given that Klugeman had attained full authority to vet all signals and reports, and was rarely if ever asked by Brigadier Keble or Colonel Wilson to provide an original decryption, there _is_ very little 'hard evidence,' however…"  
Elizabeth brought out of her suit jacket pocket a small envelope and extracted from it a folded and previously crumpled paper. She studied it hopefully,  
"My friend in the signals room gave me this, found by another W/T operator. I say 'found' but in fact that operator went in search of his original decryption after the intelligence report on the outcome of a Chetnik skirmish with the Germans was falsified and disseminated within the hour. ...We would have to track down that operator, to testify, to act as a witness..."  
Dr. Addis raised her eyes to Foyle's, and he saw in them the familiar wounded look of appeal he'd so often received, as a police officer, from wronged and hurt victims of evil acts. But now he experienced a palpable sympathetic pang in his own heart, both undeniable and, in his previous career, grounds for removing himself from the investigation.

Elizabeth hesitantly brought to him, and handed over, the carefully preserved paper. It was partially burnt at one edge, and she explained,  
"Klugeman was a pipe smoker, but it was well known that he often burnt paper in his office and would blame the smell on the inferior tobacco of the local merchants. This paper was retrieved, by clandestine means, before it was entirely burnt."

Foyle wondered why she had withheld this piece of physical evidence, but decided he couldn't fault her for building her case first. He studied the written 'corrections' to the typed lines, and twisted his lips to one side,  
"If he'd block-printed the changes we'd have nothing, but he has handwritten them." He looked up at Elizabeth with a faint but encouraging smile,  
"You have other samples of his handwriting? Official letters or statements?"  
"Yes, I do."  
Foyle passed the document over to Valentine, who read it and also smiled,  
"We've got him! -Haven't we?" He asked Foyle, and returned the paper to Dr. Addis, who slipped it into the envelope for safekeeping.  
"Quite possibly…" Foyle answered optimistically, eyeing the lady, "But best not count our chickens…"  
Valentine grinned, and shook his head,  
"Don't mention food, please. I'm starved. Isn't anyone else hungry?" He looked at his wristwatch,  
"It's past three."

Ten minutes later Valentine found himself shrugging on his overcoat, donning his hat, and being ushered down the hallway to the door by Foyle, who was promising to make a pot of tea in Hilda's kitchen and attempting to hand him an unnecessarily generous ten bob note to procure them some lunch.  
"I don't need pocket money, you know." He objected in an undertone, and realised he sounded just like a peevish younger brother being bribed to make himself scarce.

To be continued...

* * *

**Historical Note:** The character 'Norman Klugeman' is based on Norman John "James" Klugmann (1912 - 1977), whose life, activities, and work at SOE Cairo were very much as described in this fictional story.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Sincere gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Returning slowly up the hallway, Foyle considered how he should make use of these minutes of privacy with Dr. Addis. He knew there was a detail of her information still bothering him, and he suspected it was something perhaps best discussed without a third party listening.  
At the entry to the sitting room, Foyle pivoted towards Elizabeth, who stood near the work board examining a file folder in her hands. He watched her feigned preoccupation in silence until she looked up at him, then he tilted his head to say,  
"...Feel there's something you're not telling me about Hudson."  
She was about to protest, but he elaborated,  
"If this inquiry is to be successful… we have to trust each other."  
She closed the folder but avoided his eye,  
"I do trust you. It's… simply that I feel it's not relevant."  
Foyle pursed his lips, and insisted,  
"...Wwould quite likely come to the same opinion, but it's going to bother me, not knowing, and that will colour _my_ sense of trust...in _you_."  
Lifting his chin, he asked,  
"Can we put this behind us, or… do I move your name over to the side of matters requiring further investigation?"  
She looked down in dismay, pleading in a low voice,  
"Won't you take my word on this?"  
Foyle inhaled slowly before he explained,  
"Hudson...was quite possibly the last person to speak to your husband. In a police inquiry that would make him a key person of interest."  
Elizabeth glanced at him and shook her head in irritation, throwing a hand towards Hilda's work board,  
"We're looking for — and have _found_ — a communist sleeper agent with a strong motivation to silence Thomas."  
"We are. We _have_. Let me eliminate Hudson from our inquiries so we can focus on that."  
Remaining calm and reasonable, he took three measured steps into the room, closing the space between them to an arm's length. He asked gently,  
"...What..._happened_ between you?"

To his discouragement the question seemed to galvanise Dr. Addis and she dropped the folder on the sofa before walking quickly past him, upset and possibly even angry. But she didn't leave the flat, as he'd momentarily feared she was about to do.  
Instead she entered the kitchen.  
He watched her movements through the frosted glass panels, listening as she rattled the kettle and ran water from the faucet into it, lit the gas ring and placed the kettle on it to boil. She spooned tea into the teapot, cursing as she spilled some across the counter, and swept it into the pot with her hand.  
Then, after some minutes of stillness, from behind the screen of clouded glass, Elizabeth spoke.  
"...I'd interviewed more than a dozen agents about Yugoslavia. Every one of them had been professional, helpful and sympathetic. Ordinarily I would arrange the meetings to take place in an office at SOE Baker Street or at my college. ...Will Hudson insisted on meeting at my home, in the evening. He said, if I wanted his information, no other time or place was possible."  
A troubled Foyle sat down to hear her out.  
"Yes, Mr. Foyle, I...lied earlier when I said _he_ had come to see _me_. I had... _invited_ him into my home, as the law would view it. When he arrived, he had been drinking, and, after he'd spun some nonsensical tales and sentimentality about his work with Thomas, he...attacked me. I'm sure he'd characterize it as something else — a seduction — but, I assure you, it was nothing I wanted from _him_. I...managed to stop his assault — he was inebriated — but received bruises and a black eye for it before he left."  
She moved out of his view, attending to the kettle and pouring the boiling water into the teapot. After a lengthy silence Elizabeth emerged from the kitchen, her arms folded defensively across her front.

Foyle regarded her with a serious, open-eyed sympathy.  
"...I'm...very sorry. And...sorry to have had to ask. Thank-you for telling me."  
She turned her face aside and stared into the kitchen,  
"It doesn't exactly rule him out as a suspect, does it."  
"Nno."  
With a long exhalation she walked over to the work board and studied the map of Montenegro.  
Foyle, in his accustomed courtesy, rose to his feet, adding,  
"However, ...doesn't suggest a motive for murder either. ...This was four or five months after the fact?"  
"Early May of '44."  
"Had you ever met him before? At Cairo?"  
"Only in briefings, with groups of officers and field agents."  
Still addressing her back, Foyle ventured to query,  
"You...mentioned that he'd asked you 'some odd questions.' Do you recall what those were?"  
"As a matter of fact I wrote them down." Elizabeth turned away, avoiding him, and crossed the room to watch out of the window,  
"The notes are at my home. I haven't looked at them since. I recall… oh...something to do with supply drops to certain Chetnik headquarters; whether Thomas had met with those commanders; if he had discussed when the drops were made and what supplies had been received."  
Apparently restless, she came back to stand near the end of the sofa, her arms still tensely crossed, and staring at the carpet.  
"...We continued sending support into late November. The Americans did, too - even into December, against SOE's wishes. ...I can't imagine why he would need to know about that."  
Foyle made a considering moue,  
"Perhaps we could look at your notes..._er_, if, when, and where, convenient."

Elizabeth raised her head and met his eyes searchingly, and there was a prolonged, charged silence between them. Foyle was suddenly aware of his heart thudding in his chest, and he knew that either of them taking one step forward at that moment would result in their crossing a boundary. As much as he desired it, this was not the appropriate place, and certainly not the right time. He expected she must be feeling hurt and vulnerable, and, tempting as it was to offer his comfort and strength, that was not how he wanted to begin with Elizabeth Addis. He believed she would regret it, too.  
Instead, he moved back a pace, pivoting towards the 'command centre,' as Arthur had called it,  
"Was..._em_...Hilda in agreement with your assessment of Norman Klugeman?"  
There was a pause as Elizabeth re-adjusted her own emotions.  
"...Yes, absolutely."  
She sat down, a little bewildered, taking her late colleague's place on the sofa again, and drawing onto her lap the file folder she had dropped in her earlier agitation.  
Foyle asked, in a more conversational tone,  
"What were your own impressions of Klugeman? You interacted with him, in your duties, to some extent?"  
"...I...thought he was unnaturally dedicated to his work."  
Recovering from her upset at the distressing memory, Elizabeth went on, soon regaining her usual self-assured manner,  
"There were many earnest types at Cairo, of course, but Klugeman...had a sort of intellectual zeal for the cause. ...I mean, even Churchill talked bluntly of getting the job done by 'killing more Germans.' Whereas Klugeman... proselytised...on a war, _'not merely against something, but a war for something...for the great cause of national liberation.'_"  
She'd actually mimicked the man's voice, and looked up at Foyle with a wry smirk,  
"Seems bloody obvious, in hindsight, doesn't it?"  
He returned a bright, amused upside down smile.  
Elizabeth's cheeks flushed a delicate pink, then she changed tack and continued,  
"Early last year Hilda told me she'd become aware of a rumour about a recording that had been made... a recording of a conversation that might well prove his guilt — prove that Klugeman was the sleeper agent. The rumour began circulating in late '45, unfortunately at the height of the postwar transition. SOE was being wound down and... so many people were vying for positions within MI6 and MI5. The market was flooded, so to speak, with returning clandestine operatives, and competition for meaningful work was stiff. ...For most of last year Hilda was unable to give her time to this investigation."  
She opened the file folder on her lap and began reading.  
Her last remark had a tinge of melancholy to it, so Foyle suggested by way of appeasement,  
"Perhaps that's why she had _this_ made."  
He examined the mechanical components of the ingenious board,  
"...Everything in its place, instantly available, when she had a free hour."

Foyle put his hands on the small folding table, turned the catch, and lowered the desktop until the two legs settled onto the floor. He noted how they landed on either side of the marks made by Hilda's chair, and glanced up at Elizabeth to acknowledge again her earlier exploit, but she was absorbed in her reading. As Foyle straightened, he saw what had been hidden behind the desktop, and his expression fell in consternation.  
"... _'Elizabeth.'_"  
He had both read out the inscription on a small white envelope pinned to the cork board, and called her name in warning.  
Dr. Addis looked up in surprise, at his use of her Christian name and that he'd spoken it with a strange intensity.  
Seeing what he'd uncovered by lowering the table, she gasped.  
"Oh, no, ...no!" She covered her mouth with her hand, tears filling her eyes.  
"If it's Hilda's suicide note...I don't want to read it!"  
Concerned for her distress, he worried the inside of his cheek a moment, then unpinned the envelope. There was a large, thick manila envelope behind it. Foyle carried both with him and sat in Arthur's chair.  
"I'll read it, with your permission."

To be continued...


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Sincere gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 14

Elizabeth watched in apprehension as Foyle unsealed and scanned the letter, but he kept an uncharacteristically immobile face until reaching the last lines, when he raised a cryptic eyebrow. Finally he looked up,  
"It's...not too bad. She doesn't go into her reasons. It's not a suicide note."

After a slight hesitation she put out her hand and he passed the letter to her.

_My dear Elizabeth,_

_Regarding our inquiries into Thomas's fate, firstly, although we have got so close to finding Klugeman's man on the scene in Montenegro, I am as yet unable to identify him, and must leave this work to you._

_Secondly, I have at last been able to obtain a transcript of the secretly recorded interview from August 1945, and it is nearly everything we hoped it would be, though he stops short of naming his operatives. It is a full debriefing of Klugeman by none other than Robert Stewart of the CPGB's Executive Committee and Controls Commission.  
Klugeman reveals, step by step, his concerted political work to discredit the Royalist Chetniks and gain Allied support for the Partisans. While this intelligence would have been of extreme interest and importance at that time, and able to be acted upon at the highest levels, it was, regrettably, left in the hands of our previous Deputy Director, William Chambers, where it was entirely suppressed.  
__That I was able to get my hands on this transcript at all is owing to the fact that the few people who knew of its existence now feel the passage of time has made it irrelevant to current security imperatives and political affairs.  
__As you know, Klugeman has retired to a life of journalism, editing the CPGB's 'World News and Views.'_

_Thirdly, as to the unsubstantiated allegation of treason against Thomas indicated in his file, I can find no proof nor any need or reason for Klugeman to have done this, and I cannot explain it. _

_Finally, in light of my own circumstances, I must now commend you and your case into the capable hands of Mr. Foyle, and I have communicated this to Sir Alec.  
__I sincerely apologise for involving you both in our inter-departmental squabbles, which I fear has led to an estrangement of two exceptional people. If an intermediary is needed, I recommend the worthy Mr. Arthur Valentine — recent influences have rather humanised him._

_I take my leave with hopes that you will find your way back into Mr. Foyle's good graces, and he into yours, and that together you will conclude this investigation in a manner that satisfies honour, integrity and your husband's memory._

'_To know all is to forgive all' - except in espionage._

_Hilda _

Elizabeth read the letter twice, her brows bent in concentration, a little uncomfortable at Hilda's concern for her reconciliation with the man sitting across from her, and more than a little moved by her final valediction. For the moment, she chose to follow Foyle's earlier example of self-discipline, and set her feelings to one side.  
She swallowed the lump in her throat, and looked up from the letter.  
"The transcript?"

Foyle rose from his chair to put the heavy manila envelope into her hands, and then walked to the window. Dr. Addis unwound the red thread from the two buttons and slid the thick document out onto her lap. Another handwritten note lay on the top page.

_I knew you would find all this — or if you hadn't, that Mr. Foyle would. I hope you can work together. He's a good man, and will see justice done for Tom._

_~ H_

Elizabeth was about to slip the note into her pocket, but reconsidered and set it on the envelope beside her. Before she could start reading there was a knock, and the door to the flat opened. Valentine had returned with provisions.

* * *

As they'd eaten, sitting around the room in various chairs as Miss Pierce had no dining table, Valentine had been brought up to speed on the new discoveries. Then Dr. Addis had taken her cup of tea with her to read the transcript on the sofa, while Foyle, much to his younger colleague's amazement, shed his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and did the washing up of the few dishes they had used.

Valentine was anxious to get his own hands on the transcript, but he staved off impatience by fetching another bundle of files, and resumed his seat at the sideboard. Across the room, Foyle began examining several folders of documents.

A half-hour later, Dr. Addis finished reading the transcript. With a bleak expression she stood and placed it on the folding table top, then suddenly announced that she felt the need of a walk in the fresh air to clear her head. She declined Foyle's offer to join her, took up her burgundy coat from the chair and carried it over her arm to the door. Both men watched her departure.

"That was rather abrupt." Valentine observed.  
Gesturing with a document in his hand, Foyle's expression was grim and his voice quiet,  
"Well, imagine how you'd feel, reading a former colleague's smug confession of how he'd sabotaged, subverted and conspired against everything you and your friends had worked towards. ...And suspecting that this man may also have ordered the assassination of your husband."  
Valentine nodded with a thoughtful frown,  
"Will she be all right?"  
Foyle bowed his head, revealing his own anxiety over the question,  
"...Can't say. She's been through a lot, and it's not over yet. Depends on the results of our work, I suppose."  
Then he looked across the room at Valentine, giving him an appraising look for this new expression of concern. Foyle realised that, of course, Miss Pierce's death had affected him as well.  
He picked up Hilda's letter to Elizabeth and brought it over to him,  
"You should read this, too. You get a mention."  
Valentine blinked, somewhat surprised and even touched. He read the letter, and the corner of his mouth turned up, but he made no comment.

Hefting the transcript from the little table, Foyle advised,  
"I'll read this through, then it'll be your turn."

To be continued...

* * *

**Historical Note:** MI5 had a listening device planted in the offices of the Communist Party of Great Britain, and recorded the debriefing conversation between James Klugmann and Bob Stewart. On August 29, 1945, MI5's Director Sir David Petrie, informed SOE, SIS, the Political Warfare Executive, the War Office and the Foreign Office of the transcript's existence, highlighting Klugmann's 'betrayal of information' and 'most unforgivable offence, his efforts to secure that only intelligence was obtained from the field which supported his policy of recognition for Partisans and discrediting of Chetniks.' From: _The Politics and Strategy of Clandestine War: Special Operations Executive, 1940-46_ Edited by Neville Wylie.  
The general reaction to this news was that it should be suppressed as it would be an embarrassment to everyone if it was revealed that they had been lied to.


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 15

After going through the remaining file holders systematically Foyle had come to the conclusion that Hilda had held back certain information from Elizabeth. Whether it was to spare her further pain or to keep her on call he couldn't determine. Either motive was problematic, and left him in a difficult position.

He'd reserved one set of documents and, while refastening his shirt cuffs, studied again a particular report.  
Valentine looked up from his reading of the Klugeman transcript and noted his colleague's glowering countenance.  
"What is it? What have you found? Can't be worse than this, surely."  
"Wull, it's...troubling. Information on Addis's death, in detail."  
"Ah. So she did have it. Perhaps Miss Pierce hadn't the courage to tell her."  
"...Or felt not knowing kept her on the line, biddable for any request."  
Valentine cast his eyes to the ceiling, considering.  
"Miss Pierce? Was she capable of that?"  
Foyle grimaced, but declined to answer the question.  
"Could you have a look at this? Anything unusual in the evidence found?"  
Arthur set aside the transcript as Foyle handed him the file.

On his way back to the board Foyle paused at the sofa to pick up Hilda's other note, which Elizabeth had left there. He scanned the beneficent words, and tilted his head to one side skeptically, then replaced it where he'd found it.  
Again, Elizabeth's summing up of the malign influence of SOE came back to him, and he considered that it no doubt applied to Hilda as well: _'It's not you, it's not me, it's the world that we inhabit.'_

He busied himself with re-examining another folder of reports, containing summaries of several early missions.  
A few minutes later Arthur commented,  
"Well, yes, this is odd. The fragments of the explosive that destroyed the lorry… not what I'd expect from a land mine."  
Foyle strode back to consult with his colleague,  
"Thought it strange that someone had bothered to take photographs. How are the fragments...unusual?"  
"Well, firstly, you wouldn't expect to find fragments at all. A land mine is nearly always completely destroyed in its own explosion. Often because the force is intensified by striking the undercarriage of the vehicle driving over it, and by igniting the fuel. Fragments of this size and shape… would suggest a device more like a limpet mine, but that's not very like—."  
Valentine stopped as Foyle's eyes widened, registering a sudden excitement.  
"What?! Hang on..." He paced back to his cache of documents, rifled through several pages until he found the one he wanted, brought it over and set it on the sideboard.  
"Look."  
He jabbed a finger under the text to underscore the information, and waited until Arthur looked up at him in confirmation.  
"Good god."  
And at that moment Elizabeth Addis walked in, having returned from her walk.

Foyle left the papers with Arthur and signalled him to keep them to himself as he went to greet their client.  
He could instantly tell that she had shed some tears, though it had been earlier in her absence and she'd since recovered from her distress at reading the Klugeman debriefing.

She put on a brave front, though her voice was tired,  
"Well, gentlemen, any developments? Any unread files you'd like me to take on?"  
Valentine noted his colleague's deflection of the question.  
"Oh, it's...been a long day, hasn't it? It'll be dark soon. We can pick this up again in the morning." He gave her a reassuring smile, fetched his suit jacket from the chair and put it on.  
"Arthur, let's return everything to its place and close up this contrivance, shall we?" Adjusting the jacket across his shoulder with one hand, he waved towards the work board, pivoting towards him with a meaningful look.  
"Certainly."  
Valentine returned the transcript to its manila envelope and carried it, along with the file of papers, to the board. Foyle retrieved Hilda's handwritten letter and note from the sofa and tucked them into a folder.  
At the entry to the sitting room, Dr. Addis looked from one man to the other, sensing that the state of affairs had changed while she'd been out, and suspecting they'd found something they didn't wish to reveal to her just then.  
Foyle read her hesitancy and bluffed,  
"Nno, look, really, we've all put in a full day. Let's start fresh tomorrow. That is, if you're free...?"  
Addis regarded him with a slight frown, but didn't have the will or energy to protest.  
"...I'm free until two o'clock, then I have a tutorial."

With every file stowed away again, Foyle lifted the folding desktop into place and latched it, then stood back as Arthur raised the bottom edge of the board upwards. They watched in fascination as it effortlessly retracted to the ceiling and clicked into its locked position.  
"Extraordinary." Valentine assessed.  
The two men donned their overcoats and hats, and Elizabeth returned Hilda's stick to the hall closet.

* * *

As the taxi carried them to the Security Service HQ, Foyle uncharacteristically dominated the conversation. Dr. Addis was clearly emotionally exhausted, and Valentine was his usual self — observant and self-contained.  
"In the morning I should like to apprise Sir Alec of our progress, and ask him if he was aware of the Klugeman interview. I'll tell him of the altered signal - the material evidence - and request that he look into the likely state of the political will to pursue action against Klugeman…"  
Foyle thought to himself but didn't express out loud his incredulity that this man — who had apparently single-handedly manipulated the outcome of the War in Yugoslavia for his own political agenda — was residing in London quite unbothered by security and government authorities.  
"Arthur, you're available tomorrow?"  
"At your disposal."  
"I'd like you to attend the meeting with Sir Alec, and later meet us at Miss Pierce's flat again."  
He turned to Dr. Addis, offering,  
"I'll drive you to your home tonight. Be happy to pick you up in the morning, and deliver you to your college in the afternoon."  
She roused herself to answer,  
"...That's very kind. Thank you, Mr. Foyle."

The cab drew up in front of the large, long building on Curzon Street. The three got out, confirmed their arrangements for the next day, then parted company, Valentine setting off to walk home, and Foyle escorting Dr. Addis around the corner towards his car.  
They walked unhurriedly, side by side, down the quiet lane in the darkening twilight.  
Elizabeth spoke first,  
"I know you've found something."  
Foyle raised his head, looking forwards, and bit his lower lip.  
She added with a resigned sigh,  
"It will keep until morning, I suppose."  
Watching his profile, she assured him,  
"...I do want to thank you, for taking this on. I don't know what I'd have done..."  
He raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment,  
"Wull, it's important. The record needs to be set straight."  
"Indeed." After a pause,  
"I don't suppose you've identified Klugeman's agent in Montenegro? ...You would tell me if you had, wouldn't you?"  
"I would."  
"But you've found...something?"  
Foyle stopped, faced her with a sympathetic, melancholy smile, nodding slightly.  
"...It will keep, Elizabeth."  
She studied the expression in his eyes, then leant forward and kissed him on the cheek. He accepted it with a crooked quirk of his mouth, determined not to allow himself to respond to, or initiate, anything between them until this business was finished.  
They carried on towards his car, walking a little closer together than before.

A sudden movement in the dark corner of the side lane off to his left caught Foyle's attention, just as he heard a distinctive metallic snick that sent a rush of adrenaline through him. He instantly tensed, and without warning her, grabbed hold of Elizabeth to pull her off the pavement, urging her to stay down as he pushed her behind the cover of a parked lorry. The anticipated shot rang out — but must have gone wide. He looked back to see how he needed to react next, but what he saw shocked and transfixed him.

A second, taller, dark figure had appeared, grappling the gunman from behind and forcing his arm up. The second man executed a sudden move that snapped the shooter's arm into an unnatural angle. His cry of pain was quickly stifled and the revolver clattered to the ground. Another swift jerk cracked the man's head around. Foyle saw the body slump to the pavement, eased down by his killer.

It was Valentine.

Foyle turned to Elizabeth crouching beside him and saw that he still had a tight grip on her upper arm. She was wide-eyed, but on the alert rather than frightened. After assisting her to stand, he let go of her arm,  
"Beg your pardon. The danger's over, but you should wait here."  
Her expression showed full agreement.  
Emerging along the side of the lorry, Foyle walked back towards the scene of violence. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket and stooped to pick up the gun, then shoved it into his coat pocket. Ignoring the body for the moment, Foyle stared up at Valentine with a new estimation.  
"Rright…, must remember you've had that training. _Em_, thanks, Arthur. What made you come back?"  
"Saw something as our taxi passed the lane. Thought I'd just check."  
"You didn't think to _mention_ that to me?"  
"I'm...generally attuned to noticing men in the shadows… It might not have concerned you at all."  
After a beat Foyle nodded once in understanding. Then he saw that Arthur was shaking.  
"You all right?"  
"...Haven't had to do _that_ for a few years. Strange how it comes back to one so easily…"  
With unsteady hands he got out his silver case and lighter, extracted a cigarette and lit it. He drew in the calming smoke and lifted an eyebrow to indicate he was coping with the unpleasant incident.  
Turning his attention to the body, Foyle wondered aloud,  
"Who's this chap, then?"  
"A Soviet agent, I should think. Have a look at his revolver."  
Foyle retrieved the gun, unwrapped it from the handkerchief, and held it out under the light from the nearby lamppost. Valentine pointed with the fingers balancing his cigarette,  
"The Red Star embossed on the handle. That's a _Nagant M1895_ model. Very much prized among Party members."  
"What's prompted this attack?"  
Valentine pondered a moment, then stared intently at his colleague,  
"Christ, it must have been our request to MI6 for the archived German signals."  
"Well, that would mean there are sleeper agents operating in that branch, too." Foyle said, perturbed.  
"Undoubtedly."  
The last remark had come from Elizabeth, who was standing well back, beside the lorry, listening to their discussion. Both men turned to her.  
"To whom did you direct your request?"  
"Kim Philby and John Cairncross." Valentine answered.  
She gave a slow nod.  
Foyle grew more disconcerted,  
"Cairncross worked at Bletchley Park, translating German signals."  
"Philby served at SOE London. In Yugoslav Section." Arthur supplied.  
Elizabeth explained,  
"Both are Cambridge alumni. And as students flirted with Marxism and communism, around the same time that Norman Klugeman was a leading student Party member. They would, at the very least, have all been aware of each other."  
The three contemplated this unsettling information a moment.  
Dr. Addis speculated,  
"Neither of those two men served in Cairo or Yugoslavia, so they must be protecting another man, a _fourth_ man, who carried out Klugeman's order in Montenegro."  
Foyle and Valentine exchanged a look, but didn't contradict the idea.

Then they heard running footfalls approaching from the front of the building, and two young Security Service agents appeared around the corner. The taller one gaped with obvious excitement at the man lying crumpled on the ground.  
"We heard a shot. What's happened, Mr. Valentine?"  
"Spot of bother, gentlemen. Take this fellow inside, will you, before he attracts attention."  
He drew on his cigarette. "Or flies."  
"Is he dead, Sir?"  
Valentine nudged the body with the toe of his shoe.  
"He is now."  
"There's...no blood, Sir." Observed the shorter young man.  
"_He_...fired the shot." Foyle answered, indicating the body and handing over the revolver to the nearer agent. "No one was hit."

"Oh, good evening, Mr. Foyle. Madam." They doffed their hats to the lady.  
Arthur directed the taller agent,  
"Petrie, search the back lane for the bullet. It ricocheted off the wall."  
"Yes, Sir."  
He trotted away, and despite the falling darkness, soon came back with the slug.  
The short one addressed Valentine,  
"Where shall we put the body, Sir?"  
"The coldest corner of the lowest floor. We'll deal with him tomorrow. Thank you, gentlemen."

The two young agents lifted the body by the arms and carried it between them as if it were a drunken companion. The shorter one whispered to the taller as they rounded the corner,  
"We'd best pin a note on his jacket, in case anyone else discovers him first."  
"What shall we write?"  
"_'See Mr. Valentine.'_"


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: _Foyle's War_ was created by the phenomenal Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Sir Alec Myerson, et al. jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, Mr. Rupert Vansittart, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Sincere gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting substantial improvements to this chapter.

* * *

Chapter 16

Valentine had a last pull on his cigarette, then dropped it and crushed it under his shoe. Exhaling a stream of smoke, he declared,  
"I'm going for a drink."  
"Would you like company?" Foyle asked in concern.  
Arthur shook his head, gave them a grim smile, and walked away.  
Elizabeth came forward to stand next to Foyle, slipping her arm through his. And he was surprised, given her earlier apparent calm, to feel that she, too, was trembling. He guided her towards his car again.  
"Very sorry you had to see that, Elizabeth."  
Holding tight to his arm, she apologised,  
"It's my fault! You've become a target because of me, Christopher."  
With a calculating glance at her, he replied evenly,  
"W'oh, they may just as well have been after _you_, y'know. I'm only following your lead in this."  
She frowned, then flashed an amused smirk at him,  
"That's very _comforting_."  
Foyle's eyes crinkled.  
She was a little astonished at his gallows humour about the incident. Then Elizabeth noticed she'd all but stopped shivering.

Reaching the Austin, Foyle unlocked and opened the door for her, smiled as he saw her safely ensconced, and closed the door securely. Making his way around to the driver's side he looked about, scanning for any watchers, but the street was quite deserted.  
Elizabeth directed him towards St. John's Wood, on the far side of Regents Park.  
She examined his profile steadily as he drove, until, twitching his mouth to one side, he was compelled to ask,  
"What is it?"  
"You don't seem at all rattled, after being shot at."  
He tilted his head,  
"Nno blood was spilled. It...would be a different matter if someone had been hurt."  
He swept the tip of his tongue across his lips and added quietly,  
"...Someone I cared about."

Elizabeth blushed, and shifted her gaze forward. Inwardly she was both elated and alarmed. He seemed very much a kind and honourable man, but you could never know what a man was really thinking. At least, that had been her experience.  
Foyle looked sideways at her, keeping an eye on the road,  
"Elizabeth..., w-wondering if it might be, _em_, prudent...to have a conversation of, _em_, a more personal nature?"  
She blinked, and asked herself, _'Was he a mind-reader?'  
_"Well, ...yes, Christopher, perhaps we ought to."  
He acknowledged her agreement, tipping his head back,  
"After the investigation is completed, _em_, if...I haven't misread things..., curious to know if you might be...interested, at all...in seeing each other...sssocially?"  
_'Well, that was certainly laying his cards on the table.'  
_She pressed her lips together, caution tempering exhilaration, before responding,  
"...I'd like that very much, Christopher."  
Foyle beamed a self-conscious smile, and borrowed Sam's favourite line,  
"Jolly good."

There were a few minutes of happy, awkward silence until Elizabeth indicated the final turn onto her street and then the house that was their destination. Foyle parked the Austin, and turned to her,  
"Are you...quite confident to —, _er_, that is, if you're at all concerned —. Shall I just check that no one has...broken in to your home?"  
This hadn't occurred to her. She looked up at the façade with widened eyes.  
"Oh. Yyes. That would be wise, wouldn't it. Please, do come in."  
On the front porch of the semi-detached house, Foyle examined the door's lock and frame before Elizabeth used her key and let them in.  
Inside the door, he became all business, and suggested she wait by the sitting room hearth while he conducted a thorough search.

He tried to avoid noticing the particulars of her personal belongings and preferences in decorating, but saw that everything was tidy, clean and well-organised. There were two made up bedrooms, one ready for a guest, the other undoubtedly hers. One room was clearly her late husband's study, and bore the forlorn evidence of a disused bare desk, all his work long ago put away. Her own study he found quite impressive, not only book-lined but with an array of academic awards and diplomatic citations, and framed photographs depicting formal occasions of presentations and honours, both given and received. Her desk was in use and the papers rationally arranged. He recognized Thomas Addis in several photographs - studio portraits, both academic and military, and informal snaps on holidays and amongst groups of university colleagues and friends.

Having examined every room from attic to basement, and scanning the back garden from the kitchen door, he concluded there was no sign of an intruder lying in wait. He returned to her with a confident, cheerful expression.  
"Quite all right. An overabundance of caution perhaps…"  
Elizabeth was standing where he'd left her. Now she visibly relaxed.  
"Well, I appreciate your vigilance, and your concern. Thank-you."  
A pause, in which Foyle determined he should take his leave and Elizabeth decided she wished to offer him a reason to tarry. Just as he made to bid her good evening, she suggested,  
"...A cup of tea? Or should we follow Mr. Valentine's example? Something stronger?...I happen to have a decent whisky on hand."  
Foyle had intended to decline, and yet heard himself answer,  
"...Wouldn't say no to a _decent_ whisky."

After hanging their coats and hats on hooks at the door, they settled into the two wing-back chairs at the sitting room hearth, drinks in hand. Foyle appreciated the single malt, while Elizabeth sipped a sherry.  
Since he'd suggested a conversation of a personal nature, she felt emboldened to venture,  
"You're...unmarried, I take it?"  
"I...lost my wife...in '32."  
Her brows bent in sympathy, and he continued,  
"I have a son, Andrew. He was at Oxford, as the War began."  
"Ah. At which College?" She asked with keen interest.  
"_Er_…Balliol."  
"And what did he read?"  
"English. He broke off to join the RAF. Served as a Flying Officer."  
"Was he able to resume his studies?"  
Foyle crossed his legs comfortably, more at ease with the discussion.  
"He has...some sort of arrangement with his former tutor, apparently. He works in publishing now, here in London."  
She nodded her understanding and asked brightly,  
"Grandchildren?"  
"None on the near horizon. Andrew hasn't...settled down with anyone quite yet. Still finding his footing in civilian life."

Foyle didn't ask the reciprocal question about children; he had read in her file that she had none. Consequently there was an extended silence. He could see Elizabeth hesitating, mustering her determination, or courage, to speak of her own private history.

In the ten minutes she had waited by the hearth, as Foyle had searched the house for a hidden Soviet agent, Elizabeth had thought hard about how to reveal to him her personal story. Knowing how Christopher valued, and would undoubtedly detect any straying from, straightforward honesty — and having seen how forgiving and understanding he could be — she had decided that nothing less than the absolute truth would do.  
It would feel like a betrayal of Thomas, she had kept their secret so long. However, for many reasons she was ready to move on, to make a new future for herself, preferably _with_ someone. And who better to share that truth with, than the man who was working with her to restore Thomas's good name? If Christopher could accept her history, it could change everything for her. She looked across to him, read the patient expectation in his face, and began.

"We didn't have children. There's a reason for that."  
Foyle waited, resting his glass of scotch on his knee.  
"...Thomas and I met when I was an undergraduate, reading Medieval and Modern Languages at Somerville College. —Oxford." She added for his benefit, and Christopher pursed his lips in acknowledgment.  
"He was some years ahead of me, doing an advanced degree in History and Modern Languages. He became my Tutor. He was kind, outgoing, lively, and brilliant — the most interesting person of the department."  
Elizabeth smiled at the recollection,  
"He was always encouraging us girls, a great friend and advocate for female students. We had the most wonderful discussions and debates, and he respected our opinions. Thomas neither resented nor patronised us. To him, we were equals.  
"We...grew close. He was delightful company, and he took a real interest in my ambitions. Then, in my second year, there was a disturbing incident involving one of our professors, a social scandal that had slipped out of collegiate control and ended up with the police. The man was dismissed from his position at the university. Thomas was terribly upset, and very worried… He confided in me that he ...feared a similar malicious public exposure."  
She studied Christopher to see if he took her meaning.  
Foyle lifted his head in a slow nod, and he thought of friends in his own youth, of Andrew's friend, Rex Talbot, of the nervous, blackmailed Eric Caplin — and he thought of Arthur.  
But his expression gave little away.  
Elizabeth persisted.  
"I was young, idealistic, and of course thought I knew my own mind. I asked him if it would help — if he'd feel more secure — if he were married. He said he wouldn't do that to anyone, ask them to live a lie. I said he didn't have to ask, because I was offering."  
Foyle blinked.  
"At the time, I was sure I didn't want children. I was very much focused on my studies and was ambitious for an academic career. ...I looked upon women such as Winifred Smith and Margaret Murray as my heroines." *

She briefly smiled at her own youthful, energetic idealism, then continued,  
"Thomas and I argued and discussed the merits of the plan for weeks, finally coming to the conclusion that it was a reasonable scheme for us both to avoid prejudice or unfair treatment in our university, or any other, careers. And we recognised the benefits of a partnership — a comfortable home together, travel, holidays, and meaningful work. We admitted we were very fond of each other, and agreed we would share…a platonic love. He was honest with me. He told me that his heart was given to someone else, that he had...a friend, whom he could never marry."  
Christopher drew his brows together, asking gently,  
"And what about..._your...heart_?"  
Elizabeth was taken aback by his question, and swallowed a sudden lump in her throat.  
He added,  
"Did you never...fall in love?"  
After bowing her head in a moment of deep sadness, she looked up at him, admitting,  
"I did. I married him."  
Christopher slowly tilted his head in understanding.  
Then he asked,  
"...Was your marriage what you'd hoped?"  
"It was. We were happy. We were affectionate. We had a wide circle of friends. We helped each other to advance in our careers. ...When I reached the stage of life when I realised I _did_ want a child, I kept it to myself — kept to our agreement. ...And then the War came. I was, at least, glad that I was free to do the work needed for our country, for victory."

Foyle observed,  
"People marry for all sorts of reasons, ...many...not nearly as good as yours."  
Elizabeth gazed at him with gratitude, but had to ask,  
"You don't have a problem with..._em, that_…, as a former police officer?"  
"No, not at all. Felt there was always a great variety of wrongdoing going on without having to resort to breaking into private social clubs or people's bedrooms to find something else, under the law."  
She smiled approval at his explanation.  
"Well, I am..._relieved_ to hear you say that. It had to be our secret, of course. My family never knew. There were some colleagues and acquaintances who...were suspicious, some who excluded us. However, just as many flocked around us."  
"Generally...smooth sailing?"

Elizabeth knit her brows at the unhappy recollection,  
"Nno. We had... a rough patch. When Tom's...friend… dropped him. He didn't tell me, at first. I knew something had happened, his friend was one of our circle and suddenly we never saw him. Tom was heartbroken, angry. He became reckless, and began...unsafe practices. When he came home one night beaten and bloody, ...I had to take a stand. I told him he was risking both our careers, his reputation _and_ mine. He apologised, promised to use more discretion, and for a while we were even closer. But I couldn't be sure. He certainly never met anyone new that he cared to introduce to me. When the War started,...suddenly we were both too busy to dwell on our...disappointments."  
Foyle's sympathy for her story was evident in his attentive, kind expression, however he made no further comment.

Feeling that she had acquitted herself well in her full disclosure, Elizabeth turned the question back onto him, with a compassionate inclining of her head,  
"_Your_ marriage…, Christopher?"  
He straightened up in the chair.  
"A...very good marriage. Very...happy. Her name...was...Rosalind."  
His eyes closed as he spoke her name, an unconscious need to keep her memory private. Then they opened again as he added softly,  
"Still keep in touch with her brother and his wife. Nnot as often as I should."  
Elizabeth was moved by the profound emotion inspired by merely speaking his late wife's name, and understood that he was capable of deep love and attachment.  
"...What happened?"  
He inhaled a long breath before answering,  
"Typhoid. She had volunteered at a local relief centre, a soup kitchen for the unemployed. The...illness was very brief, a matter of days."  
"Oh, ...I'm so sorry. A terrible shock."  
Foyle dipped his head in confirmation.  
"And your son, Andrew… So young."  
She winced in sympathy, but Elizabeth could see the subject was difficult for him and he was growing uncomfortable with it, not meeting her eyes, shifting his gaze from the hearth to the carpet.  
"...You said Andrew served as a Flying Officer. What sort of flying did he do?"  
Now Foyle did look up, grateful and appreciative of her sensitivity.  
"_Er_...Fighter Pilot. Spitfires mostly. Ended the War as a Flight Instructor." And at last he offered a spontaneous personal remark,  
"_Em...very_ proud of him."  
She compressed her lips to hide a fond smile,  
"Have you told him that?"  
Christopher narrowed his eyes at her,  
"Wulll...he knows I am." Then he conceded with a twitch of his mouth,  
"Wouldn't hurt to put it into words, I suppose."  
Elizabeth downed the last of her sherry as if to underscore a small victory, and Foyle saw the gesture as an opportunity to take his leave. Not that he was at all anxious to go, quite the opposite — he felt pleased and encouraged by the openness of their conversation — but theirs was still a professional relationship.

He set his glass on the little table at his elbow,  
"Well, _em_, thank-you, Elizabeth. Be back in the morning to collect you. Say..._er_… half past nine?"  
"After your meeting with the Deputy Director, yes."  
She rose from her chair, offering,  
"I'll give you my telephone number, in case there's an unforeseen change of plans."

He stood and walked to the entryway to put on his coat. Elizabeth joined him at the door, bearing one of her University College Faculty cards upon which she had written her home telephone number in ink. Accepting the card with a smile, he studied it before slipping it into his breast pocket.  
They shook hands, and then Elizabeth moved her hand to his upper arm and leant closer to kiss his cheek as she had earlier in the evening. She lingered tantalizingly close, her lips by his ear, until he lifted his arms around her and they found themselves holding each other in a warm embrace.  
Foyle definitely hadn't intended for this to happen...yet.  
"You...could stay, Christopher." She whispered, rather surprising herself.  
He wasn't prepared for the jolt of desire that ran through him, and was glad of the double layers of his overcoat between them.  
Luckily he thought of a ready excuse.  
"I'm...sorry, but I have a meeting with a..._very_ demanding client in the morning. Must be at my sharpest."  
With amusement in her plea, Elizabeth countered,  
"...You could meet her _here_. She'd even give you breakfast."  
Hearing his long, slow inhalation, it was obvious to her that Christopher was wrestling with his conscience over her invitation. Yet she was surprised, again, at her own sense of relief when he shook his head, sticking to his principles.  
"Nnot at all professional on my part."  
They smiled as they drew back, gazing intently into each other's eyes, but then he couldn't resist claiming a tender kiss, one that left them both rather lightheaded. Christopher enjoyed watching her entranced response.  
Then he reached back to grasp and turn the door handle.  
Elizabeth half-opened her eyes,  
"You're going? ...After _that_?"  
"Yep."  
"Well…!"  
"Sorry, important work to do. G'night."  
With a final self-deprecating smirk he grabbed his hat from the hook and escaped out the door.

TBC...

* * *

**Footnote:**

**Winifred Smith** (1858–1925) was an English botanist and educationist. She became a lecturer in the botany department at University College, London and took a leading role in supporting women students.

**Margaret Alice Murray** (13 July 1863 – 13 November 1963) was an Anglo-Indian Egyptologist, archaeologist, anthropologist, historian, and folklorist. The first woman to be appointed as a lecturer in archaeology in the United Kingdom, she worked at University College London (UCL) from 1898 to 1935. She served as President of the Folklore Society from 1953 to 1955, and published widely over the course of her career.


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Christopher Foyle, Arthur Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Sir Alec Myerson, et al., jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, Mr. Rupert Vansittart, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and suggesting improvements to the manuscript.

* * *

Chapter 17

Foyle hadn't gone straight to his rooms after he had left Elizabeth. Instead, buoyed along by his pleasure at their evening together, he'd returned to Hilda's flat, intent on re-examining certain files. He drove a meandering route through the dark streets, keeping alert to the possibility of being followed. Once inside the apartment, before switching on the lamps, he made his way to the windows, parted the curtains and studied the street below. It was empty, as far as he could tell. Then by lamplight he had opened the hidden compartment and retrieved the documents.

Though Hilda had admitted in her letter she'd been unable to trace the agent sent to kill Thomas, he had hoped that going over signals and field reports from December of '43 again might yield a name.

As well, he'd been puzzled earlier in the afternoon by a separate group of documents that had seemed entirely unrelated to her investigation of Captain Addis's death. One had described the attempted defection of a Russian consul in Turkey. Another was related to the appointment of a Foreign Office official to the British Embassy in Washington.

After well over an hour of reading and research — during which he had been both sustained and distracted by a delicate trace of Elizabeth's scent on his hands — he had to stop. It was nearing midnight, he was rubbing his eyes and yawning and no longer taking anything in. Once more he returned everything to its place and folded up the secret 'command centre.' With the lamps switched off, he again peered out of the window to scan the street below for anyone lounging about, but saw no one.

* * *

The next morning, lying in his bed before rising to start the day, Foyle mused over last night's conversation, and the word that figured prominently in his thoughts of Elizabeth was 'unconventional.' To his mind her marriage had been a sacrifice of her natural feelings, set aside not only for her ambitions to pursue a university career, but also for the noble cause of defending from injustice the man she loved. He couldn't fault her for either of those motives, and the latter was a rare act of self-denial. While it wasn't his place to approve or censure her conduct, he wasn't certain he entirely understood it.

Nonetheless, he knew his feelings for Elizabeth had, in one day, progressed from an earnest wish for reconciliation and hope for a renewed chance of friendship with this exceptional woman, to dawning thoughts of romance. Perhaps even the first blush of new love.

With Rosalind he had been desperately smitten within hours of their first meeting, but then he had been a young man in a hurry. Didn't it make even more sense, now, to act on his feelings — as an old man in a hurry?  
...After all, how much time might he have left?  
With that question in mind he threw off the covers and got out of bed.

Foyle found himself taking extra care in his grooming and even deliberating over the selection of a necktie. He gave his best everyday suit a thorough brushing, and reflected that, while he was generally careful in his personal habits, nearly all of his suits were approaching a decade of service, and he felt that that was more than could be reasonably asked of them. Having never given it much thought before, he wondered if he had the proper ration coupons to look into having a new one made.*

Examining himself in the mirror as he finished knotting his tie — he'd chosen the dark red one — he was aware of his elevated sense of anticipation for the coming day's agenda. Not only was he hoping to obtain an unprecedented degree of cooperation and assistance from the Deputy Director to bring Hilda Pierce's last case to a successful conclusion, but he was very much looking forward to seeing Elizabeth, and to the enjoyment of spending part of the day in her company. What a difference a day had made—

But his optimistic reflections were cut short by the ringing of his telephone.  
Foyle checked his wristwatch and noted the time was twenty-five past seven.  
"Foyle."  
"Christopher? It's Sam. Have you a moment to speak with Adam?"  
Rather than waste time having her explain what he was about to hear, he replied in a genial tone,  
"Put him on."  
There was the sound of the phone being passed from her hand to his.  
"Mr. Foyle, sorry to disturb you so early, but in the House yesterday a question was asked that I thought might interest you, after our recent conversation. It's to do with Yugoslavia."  
He raised his eyebrows,  
"Yes? Should we meet, or can you tell me over the phone?"  
Foyle was fairly certain his telephone line was secure, having had it inspected after the interference by the Foreign Office at the time of the Palestinian Conference.  
"I can give you the gist of it. The question was asked of the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs as to the circumstances of the arrest of a British trade delegation member in Belgrade."  
Adam continued, now quickly reading verbatim from his notes,  
"Mr. Bevin replied that 'Mr. Stephen Zollner was arrested on the orders of the Yugoslav Ministry of the Interior and is at present confined to a prison in Belgrade. He has been visited by a representative of His Majesty's Embassy. His Majesty's Ambassador has been informed that he is accused of serious offences against the security of the Yugoslav State.'"  
He rushed through the last bit,  
"'His examination has not yet been completed and specific charges against him have not yet been formulated.'" *

"—Now, this wasn't said in the House, but I spoke with another MP who has information that Mr. Zollner was caught trying to smuggle out of the country, in a diplomatic bag, a large sum of British wartime gold."  
Foyle drew himself up and listened with a serious frown,  
"Go on."  
"Zollner named an accomplice, an SOE Liaison Officer. Apparently during the War the field agent had secretly buried a quantity of gold meant for Chetnik resistance fighters. Zollner went to retrieve it."  
With the receiver pressed to his ear, Foyle pivoted to look out of his north-facing window towards Regent's Park and, notionally, beyond to St. John's Wood.  
"Did the MP tell you the field agent's name?"

* * *

At five minutes before eight o'clock, on the third floor of the Security Service building, Valentine walked into Foyle's office to find his colleague pacing in obvious agitation.  
His entry brought the older man to an abrupt halt.  
"Arthur. You're all right, after..._em_...?"  
Valentine brushed off the concern,  
"Of course. What's happened?"  
"A...development."  
But they were interrupted by Myerson's secretary, who tapped on the open door,  
"Sir Alec is ready for you now, gentlemen."  
They followed some distance behind the secretary in the corridor, and Valentine murmured,  
"...What development?"  
Foyle shook his head, answering equally _sotto voce_,  
"_Er_...Let's focus on this first."

In the opulent chamber reserved for the Deputy Director of the Security Service, Sir Alec Myerson stood facing the windows, a large, imposing figure framed as a silhouette against the morning light. When the two senior agents entered, he turned towards them.  
Neither man could read his expression. However, he began in a reasonable tone,  
"I understand you've drawn fire _again_, Foyle. Resulting in a corpse being dragged from the street into this very building."  
Valentine checked his impulse to defend his partner, instead waiting to hear the man out.  
"And I understand we have you to thank, Mr. Valentine, for protecting your colleague and dispatching the attacker effectively and without fuss."  
Arthur, pleasantly surprised at the acknowledgement, lowered his eyes in modesty.

Myerson stepped into the ambient light of the office, hands clasped behind his back,  
"_'Vadim'_ was the man's code name. His real name was Ivan Chichayev. He was the current Soviet _'rezident'_, the controller for a string of as yet unidentified sleeper agents. For this man to attempt your assassination personally, Foyle… well, it's stirred up a great deal of attention here and amongst our MI6 counterparts."  
Seeing no need to interject either, Foyle maintained an attentive expression.  
"Where exactly has your investigation led you, that it should provoke such an attack? I was under the impression that the Addis case was an old matter from the War."  
After a pause Foyle replied ominously,  
"War...casts long shadows."  
Valentine slowly turned to eye Foyle, rather impressed.  
"Indeed. Sit down gentlemen. Tell me what you've discovered."

Arthur sat to the right of Foyle, who took a seat and crossed his legs, settling in for what he hoped would be a lengthy and comprehensive discussion.  
"You'll...remember our difficulties with your predecessor, William Chambers?"  
"Of course. The extent of the damage he caused is incalculable."  
"And you may be aware of the release from prison last week of former Captain Ormond Uren who worked at SOE Baker Street. He was caught in the summer of '43 passing secret documents to the Communist Party of Great Britain's National Organiser, Douglas Springhall." *

Myerson lifted his chin in acknowledgment.

"You can appreciate it's likely these two disparate acts of treason were not isolated incidents. The Security Services employ many who, during the War, were actively and openly working in concert with our former ally, the Soviet Union, in the fight against fascism. Some _not_ so openly, and for different motivations. They worked in every sector — the War Office, all branches of the military, and the Secret Services. Some had divided — or entirely _different_ — loyalties, which we've learned to our great cost. As Mr. Valentine said to you before, 'they may have moved on, they could be in intelligence, they could be in government.'"

Myerson and Valentine looked almost equally discomfited at this reminder of a past professional conflict.  
Valentine asserted,  
"...We believe it was the request made to MI6 for the German signals in Yugoslavia that has alerted these Soviet sleeper agents and prompted last night's attack."  
"Disloyal agents in MI6? Not beyond the realm of possibility." Sir Alec acknowledged.  
Foyle nodded before addressing Myerson pointedly,  
"Do you know the name...Norman Klugeman?"  
"Can't say I've heard it. Who is he?"  
"Klugeman was stationed at SOE Cairo, where he heavily influenced — one might say, _directed_ — government and War Office policy regarding Yugoslavia. He is a Communist. He worked to promote the Partisans and discredit the Chetniks. And he was very successful."  
"And how is this connected to Addis?"  
"Captain Addis was about to expose Klugeman's activities when he was killed — murdered — in Montenegro in mid-December, '43."  
Valentine added,  
"It was just at the time Churchill was about to officially announce that we were switching support from Mihailovich's Chetniks to Tito's communist Partisans."  
Sir Alec frowned,  
"You have proof that this Klugeman was responsible for the murder?"  
Foyle didn't hesitate to assert,  
"We're very close. What we _do_ have — thanks to the diligence of Dr. Elizabeth Addis — is Klugeman's handwriting on a signal decrypt, in which he alters a field agent's report of a successful Chetnik skirmish against a German unit in Serbia in May of 1943. The signal is altered to give credit to a Partisan commander who, at the time, was in Croatia. This is verified by the German signals from both Serbia and Croatia."  
Myerson pursed his lips,  
"We haven't yet had a _response_ from MI6 to our request for the German signals."  
He added irreverently, "...Other than the attempt to kill you."  
Valentine raised one eyebrow at the remark, then clarified,  
"Miss Pierce already had them. We found them in her flat yesterday after I spoke with you."  
"I see. She was ten steps ahead of everyone, as usual."  
Foyle gave a half-smile before continuing,  
"...We also have a transcription of a secret recording made in August 1945 in which Norman Klugeman is debriefed in London by an official of the Communist Party of Great Britain. He describes how he worked clandestinely to promote Communist interests above every other imperative of Allied operations in Yugoslavia."

Looking decidedly uncomfortable, Myerson declared,  
"I haven't heard of this recording."  
"No. It was suppressed by William Chambers. It had taken Miss Pierce from late 1945 until this year to get a copy of the transcript."  
The Deputy Director straightened in his chair,  
"Well, I'm not one to rely on information interpreted second hand. I will get you the original recording, Foyle, if it still exists. Anything else?"  
"Well, yes. In light of the attack last night, we mmight want to look into the affiliations of John Cairncross and Kim Philby at MI6."  
"They are two _very senior_ officials, Foyle."  
"As...was...Chambers."  
Sir Alec lifted his brows, conceding the point.  
Foyle went on,  
"Cairncross served at Government Code and Cypher School, Bletchley Park, translating German Signals…"  
Valentine informed him,  
"Philby worked at SOE Baker Street, Yugoslav Section, where he received signals intelligence sent by Klugeman from Cairo, and had some control over this intelligence himself."  
Myerson's face was nearly impassive, but his eyes gave away a rapidly calculating mind.  
Foyle waited a moment before revealing what he'd found last night.  
"It...appears Hilda was _following_ this line of inquiry, looking into the activities of...four or five senior intelligence agents and Foreign Office staff."  
Valentine frowned, as this was news to him, and he could only watch as his colleague explained.

"Miss Pierce had noted an incident that occurred in August of '45 — a _very busy_ month in intelligence circles, apparently. The Russian vice-consul in Istanbul, Konstantin Volkov, requested political asylum in Britain for himself and his wife — he wanted to defect. For a sum of money, Volkov was prepared to offer the names of three Soviet agents inside Britain, two of whom worked in the Foreign Office and a third who worked in counter-espionage in London.  
"MI-6, in their wisdom, sent Philby, of Section V, counter-espionage, to deal with him. Philby somehow took three weeks to travel to Istanbul. By the time he arrived, Volkov and his wife had already been bundled onto a Soviet military transport plane and taken back to Russia, never to be heard from again. Philby was given a rap on the knuckles for his tardiness.*  
"...Hilda has gathered further examples and incidents that I can supply you with. ...And Dr. Elizabeth Addis has traced four or five of these men back to an early association in student Communist Party activities at Cambridge University."

Myerson had sunk deeper into his leather chair, as if overburdened with the information. He sighed and advised them quietly,  
"Leave this with me, both of you. ...I'll let you know when I've obtained the Klugeman recording."  
Without rising he wearily dismissed them,  
"Thank-you, gentlemen, that will be all."

Valentine looked to Foyle in protest — surely there was more of their findings that should be reported to the Deputy Director? Yet Foyle was on his feet and making for the door.

In the corridor, walking to Foyle's office, Valentine complained,  
"You never mentioned you'd found a separate inquiry."  
"Wull, I only found it last night."  
"You went back to the _flat_? ..._Alone_?" He asked with concern.  
"Yes, alone. For heaven's sake, Arthur."  
"I only meant that there could have been _danger. _You could have been followed."  
"Well, that _had_ occurred to me, you know. Took a circuitous route, and watched the street from the window."  
Valentine looked sideways at him in puzzlement, asking,  
"...Is this the new development?"  
He noted that Foyle hesitated before answering.  
"Yyyess."

To be continued…

* * *

**Footnote:** Clothes rationing ended on March 15, 1949.

**Footnote:** From Hansard, September 1947. This was a written question to the Secretary and perhaps not asked orally during Question Time in the House of Commons. The date of arrest of Stephen Zollner was September 5th, but I've moved it to March for this fictional story.

**Historical Note:** In October 1943 Captain Ormond Uren, of SOE London, Hungarian Section, was court-martialed, cashiered and sentenced to seven years in prison. Released in February 1947.

**Historical Note:** When given this assignment, Philby immediately informed his Soviet contact, and delayed his arrival in Istanbul until the defecting Consul was dealt with by Russian officials.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Sir Alec Myerson, et al. jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, Mr. Rupert Vansittart, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Many thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering suggestions for improvements to the story.

* * *

Chapter 18

Valentine followed Foyle into his office, closed the door behind them, and stared at his colleague with concern. Foyle chose to ignore it, stepping around to stand behind his desk, saying almost to himself,  
"Well, I think that went well."  
"Do you?"  
"Yes… If Sir Alec can get us the recording of Klugeman's debriefing—."  
"Foyle! What are you _thinking_? You didn't even _mention_ Hudson to Sir Alec."  
Instead of responding, his colleague knocked together a perfectly neat stack of papers on the blotter.  
"You have the _evidence_ of the limpet mine."  
"Circumstantial at this point."  
"You didn't think so yesterday. You thought it was conclusive."  
Foyle again didn't respond, instead chewing the inside of his cheek.  
"Have you identified Klugeman's agent?"  
"Nno."  
"...But you have more information. And you're not sharing it with me."  
Foyle avoided eye contact, picking up a typewritten sheet and asking lightly,  
"What makes you think that?"  
Arthur raised an index finger and said accusingly,  
"_You_...were pacing this morning. You don't pace over information that's twelve hours old — such as Miss Pierce's secondary inquiry. No, you've found — or heard — something new. This morning."  
"Possibly. But it can wait."  
"Is it related to what we're working on?"  
"...It is."  
Arthur watched him in tense expectation, not wanting to have to ask.  
Finally Foyle met his eyes.  
"Look, there is every reason to believe that Norman Klugeman intended to eliminate Captain Addis. We mustn't allow ourselves to be distracted from our original line of inquiry."  
"Distracted by the actual _murderer_?!"  
Valentine felt the ground shift slightly under his feet — if Foyle couldn't be relied on, where was his bedrock…?  
His colleague stated reasonably,  
"Arthur, it's important that the full extent of Klugeman's treachery be exposed."  
"Wh—yes, certainly, but not to the point of—." He stopped himself from making a serious accusation.  
Valentine regrouped, then cautioned,  
"...This is beginning to look rather like the Plato investigation—."  
Foyle put up his hand in a stern warning,  
"Nunno. No. Not the same thing at all. Don't forget that Klugeman's men were briefed and prepared to kill Dr. Addis in Cairo. They were redirected. It's extremely likely that one of them was sent to Montenegro. —It's _vital_ that we identify that agent."  
Valentine let out an exasperated breath, and immediately regretted muttering,  
"...Shall we call him _Aristotle_?"  
He winced apologetically,  
"Sorry. Didn't mean that. Of course you're right."

Foyle endured the insult and accepted the apology, then asked him quietly,  
"Please...be _patient_, Arthur. Bear with me."  
Valentine regarded him with a wary contrition,  
"May I at least take steps to determine Hudson's current whereabouts?"  
Foyle shut his eyes a moment, then gave a reluctant, affirmative nod.  
"Be careful. Let's not alert him."  
He glanced at his wristwatch,  
"I've got to leave now. You'll meet us at the flat later?"  
With his faith, and good humour, somewhat restored, Valentine confirmed dryly,  
"After I've dealt with poor old _Vadim_ in the basement."  
Christopher quirked his mouth to one side,  
"Where do you lot dispose of dead bodies?"  
Arthur smiled, glad to be back on a bantering footing with his colleague,  
"...There's always a convenient spot by the river."

* * *

Arthur's doubts and criticisms had somewhat dampened Foyle's spirits as he drove to St. John's Wood, and he had some misgivings about withholding the news from Belgrade. However, he was satisfied with Myerson's response and had hope, if the recorded debriefing could be found, of discovering an indication of Norman Klugeman's murderous intentions. Hearing the man's voice, his emphases and inflections on certain phrases, would provide a fuller insight into his thinking, superior to merely reading his words.

And of course Foyle understood that this was the result Elizabeth wanted, _needed_, in order to lay Tom's ghost to rest.

As to the accusation of treason indicated in the personnel file, the new development in Belgrade had suggested to Foyle the likely origin of and interference with that. If he was correct, it would soon be possible to restore Captain Addis's honour as a loyal soldier and subject, bringing the case to a satisfactory conclusion.

And Elizabeth would be free to begin the rest of her life.

* * *

As Elizabeth applied a last touch of lipstick in front of her dressing table mirror — it was _Gala of London's 'Cock's Comb,'_ miraculously procured for her at Christmas by one of her and Tom's 'theatrical' friends — she was reconsidering her current choice of hairstyle. It had served her well enough in her professional, academic life, giving a tidy, well-groomed, even painstaking presentation to colleagues and students. But perhaps it was a little severe, a little... inflexible.

Well, time enough to make changes, it would seem. If Christopher was indeed interested in seeing more of her (she smiled to herself at the _double entendre_), he clearly wasn't the type to leap into bed in a reckless passion. She found this reassuring. Perhaps he'd take the time to court her in a traditional sort of way, which, she imagined, would be quite enjoyable.

Although it certainly had not escaped her notice, when she'd shown him up to the small attic bedroom for visiting lecturers, that Christopher had given her an undisguised appreciative once-over glance. It would have brought a blush to her cheeks, had she not already been blushing: she'd automatically started unpacking his suitcase, as she'd done so often for Tom on their travels, before realising that it was a tad familiar on her part, handling his blue pyjamas, spare shirts and shaving kit, given their short acquaintance.

She speculated on what sort of friends Christopher had, and how he would get along with some of her circle of friends. Everything about him seemed to promise an enlightened intellect, wit, acceptance and tolerance. Amongst the Security Services he had a reputation for being 'unconventional.' Whether that applied in his private beliefs was yet to be determined, but she was certainly keen to find out.

* * *

At Elizabeth's front door Foyle paused to adjust the knot of his necktie, remove his hat and smooth his hair, feeling more like a nervous suitor than a co-investigator. He was right on time, and his knock was answered immediately as Elizabeth greeted him with a radiant smile.

"Good morning! Come in, Christopher."  
She stepped back and he walked in, beaming equally brightly,  
"G'morning. Trust you're well?"  
"I am, thanks."  
She closed the door and they faced each other happily a moment until Foyle threw caution aside — along with all of his professional detachment and ethics — and kissed her on the cheek.  
Elizabeth wasn't about to settle for that after last night's embrace, and moved closer to press herself against him, cupping his cheek in her hand and gazing into his eyes before kissing him full on the mouth.  
If a man could look both startled and befogged at the same time, that is what Elizabeth saw in Christopher's expression as she drew back, murmuring appreciatively,  
"_Mmmm_, I've missed you."  
She watched him with satisfaction, then announced into his coat lapel,  
"I've collected together all the notes, documents and diaries to bring with us to Hilda's. Unless you'd care to go over them here?"  
Foyle wasn't quite as fast at switching gears this time, lost in the sensation of the kiss and of holding her in his arms, and answered foggily,  
"...Have you?"  
He cleared his throat,  
"That's...very good… _Em_… No, let's take them with us. Shouldn't mix business with..._um_..."  
Elizabeth suppressed a smile at his distraction, then released him, moving her hands to his shoulders and regarding him at arms' length,  
"You're quite right."  
She got out her handkerchief to pat the trace of colour from his lips, and added in brisk, businesslike assent,  
"I'll get my hat and coat."

Christopher stepped further into the sitting room, examining the carpet with a crooked smile and dangling his trilby by its brim. He used his own handkerchief on his lips, knowing, from observing Sam and others, that modern cosmetics tended to stain. Turning to watch and admire as she pinned a small burgundy fedora to her hair before the mirror, he anticipated helping her into her matching coat.

But then there came a quite unwelcome knock at the door.

* * *

They exchanged a glance of shared annoyance before Elizabeth pulled the door open to reveal two younger, dark-suited men. She apparently knew one of them, and was not pleased to see him.  
"Mr. Wright. Not back _again_?"  
"Good morning, Dr. Addis. One or two more questions for you, I'm afraid."  
She pivoted a quarter turn to indicate she was not alone,  
"My colleague and I were just leaving. Couldn't this wait? It's not at all a convenient time."  
Foyle came forward to get a look at the two callers, who had the obdurate mien of security service agents. They weren't from his branch. The two men acknowledged him with curt, suspicious nods.  
"Shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes, Doctor. If you wouldn't mind."  
"Oh, very well. Come in." She met Christopher's eye before making the introductions.  
"Mr. Foyle, this is agent David Wright of SIS, and, ...I'm sorry, I don't know your name."  
"Jack Easton. How do you do."  
Foyle inclined his head, noticing that the first agent was clearly trying to remember where he'd heard his name before. Neither agent bothered to show him their identification badge.  
Elizabeth explained,  
"Mr. Wright has been questioning me and, I suspect, watching me, for three years. However, he won't come to the point, so I've been unable to help him."  
Foyle lifted an eyebrow in surprise at this information. She hadn't mentioned this surveillance to him, but perhaps soon would have.  
He didn't feel he could interfere but was curious to see how things played out. The other three took seats while he remained standing by the hearth.

Wright began pleasantly,  
"Dr. Addis, I expect you're waiting for good news from Yugoslavia? From a friend who traveled there recently?"  
"No, I have no friend traveling to Yugoslavia." She answered evenly, with raised brows and exaggerated patience, quite used to his cryptic questions.  
"...Neither have I purchased anything extravagant, any luxury goods, nor a home in the country, nor a new car, since you last inquired."

Foyle suddenly understood what had been going on, and that it was clear Elizabeth had no idea why she'd been watched and questioned since 1944 by the Secret Intelligence Service.  
And he knew something these two agents obviously didn't know.  
While he found himself in the position of possibly having to reveal what he'd learned this morning, under less than ideal circumstances, perhaps he could use that to his, and Elizabeth's, advantage.

"Come now, Dr. Addis, your late husband left you quite a nest egg. It's remarkable you've been patient for so long. Now it seems you've found a way to collect it."  
Easton demanded less agreeably,  
"How did you first make contact with Mr. Zollner?"  
"I don't know anyone by the name of Zollner." Elizabeth remained straight-forward and calm, while the agents, Foyle saw, were betraying some anxiety.  
Easton looked to his partner, shaking his head,  
"Let's bring her in."

Foyle stepped forward,  
"That's...not necessary. You gentlemen are clearly in difficulties and I think we can shed some light on the matter."  
They regarded him with scepticism.  
"This really doesn't concern you, Mr.—."  
"Well, it does, in fact, and I believe I can help. You're referring to Stephen Zollner, who was arrested in Belgrade."  
Elizabeth looked up at him, puzzled and a little suspicious herself. He flashed a subtle wink at her.  
The agents spoke at the same time,  
"How do you know about that?"  
"What do you know about it?"  
"Only as much as was discussed in Parliament yesterday. Perhaps a little more. You are investigating the loss, during the War, of a substantial amount of gold that was dropped into Yugoslavia for the support of Chetnik resistance fighters?"  
The first agent got to his feet,  
"What on earth do you know about that? Who are you?"  
"The name's Foyle. ...A Senior Investigator with MI5."  
He produced his identity badge.  
"'Foyle'…?"  
Then Easton slowly rose to his feet and exclaimed,  
"You're the chap who got Ord-Smith sacked from the Foreign Office."  
The two men exchanged a look, clearly impressed, and both turned to study him with interest.  
Christopher suggested,  
"Mmight be more efficient to clear this matter up at our offices in Curzon Street. Why don't you follow us over there?"  
After some resistance and jurisdictional protest they eventually agreed.

Foyle sent the agents out to their car, then made two phone calls to the Security Service from Elizabeth's study, and she gathered her documents.  
In his car, he could tell she was perplexed, and even worried.  
He reassured her,  
"What's happened, Elizabeth, is simply that I came across two new pieces of information that fit into this puzzle rather neatly. One yesterday afternoon in Hilda's collection of files when you went out walking..."  
"The discovery that would keep until morning." She gave a nod of understanding.  
"Yes." He pressed her hand briefly between shifting gears.  
"And the second came by telephone earlier today from a friend who happens to be a Member of Parliament."  
"Who shall remain nameless?"  
"Well, I'd prefer it, for the moment, yes."  
"All right. ...Thank-you, Christopher. I confess I felt a cold draught of paranoia when you first spoke up. You seemed to have a complete picture of what those two were after."  
She shook her head in frustration,  
"I've had _no_ clear idea...Mr. Wright really wouldn't tell me anything, and yet...kept questioning me every four to six months..."  
She suddenly realised,  
"They think it was _Thomas_ who stole the—? Oh, my god."  
He took hold of her hand again, and explained quietly,  
"Fairly certain that's what's behind the accusation of treason."  
Foyle didn't elaborate on whom he suspected of making that accusation.

To be continued…


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Sir Alec Myerson, et al. jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, Mr. Rupert Vansittart, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Many thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering suggestions for improvements to the story.

**Author's note:** This is a short chapter, but more to come soon.

* * *

Chapter 19

While waiting for the others to arrive for the meeting Foyle had requested — the second this morning — Sir Alec Myerson paced slowly across his office carpet and back again in thoughtful preoccupation. It was Miss Pierce who was troubling him — her investigation, and how she had kept her cards close to her chest. A necessary precaution, given what she had begun to suspect: that it was entirely possible that all branches of the Security Services were infested with Soviet double agents from the lowest to highest level. Myerson felt the glacial chill of the Cold War settle over his shoulders with a deeply unpleasant weight.

However, Foyle had discovered Hilda's investigative file and recognised it for what it was. The questions he had to answer for himself were...what he was going to do about it, and whom he could trust.

* * *

Walking together side by side down the corridor, Foyle carrying Elizabeth's briefcase full of documents, they were about to pass the door to his office when Christopher slowed his pace and came to a stop. Elizabeth was anxious to hear the results of the morning meeting with the Deputy Director and how the new developments fit in with their investigation. She watched him now in mild puzzlement.

Christopher said quietly,  
"Let's just, _em_, step in here a moment."

He opened his office door to usher her inside. Elizabeth saw in his expression that he was troubled — he had that telltale habit of biting the inside of his cheek when considering a response or a difficult course of action.  
After closing the door behind them, Christopher hung his hat on the stand, set the briefcase on his desk, and stepped over to face her.  
"Look, _em_, feel it would be best if you came into this meeting fully informed. It's not that I've wanted to keep anything _from_ you, but, _erm_…"  
"You want to tell me of yesterday's discovery?"  
"Yess."  
"It's…not what I hoped we'd find?"  
His expression changed to one of pained concern,  
"Well, feel strongly that we should _continue_ to pursue Norman Klugeman, and the agent he sent to Montenegro..."  
Elizabeth frowned in dismay as she acknowledged,  
"...But you haven't found evidence of that."  
"Nnot as yet—."  
Grateful for his understanding of her position, nonetheless she stated the cold truth,  
"I've set you on another Plato investigation."  
Christopher shook his head,  
"No, I wouldn't say that at _all_—."  
She took hold of his hands,  
"Tell me what you _have_ found, then."  
Foyle hesitated as he studied her eyes.  
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. The evidence suggests it was Will Hudson."  
Shocked, she dropped his hands and stepped back, not ready to accept this.  
"But..._why_? Why would he murder Thomas?"

Foyle explained what they'd learned,  
"In February of '43 Hudson received an airdrop of ammunition, supplies, money...and gold, meant for Chetnik fighters. He _kept_ much of the gold and buried it, to be retrieved at a later time. It would seem that Thomas became aware of this, possibly witnessed it, and perhaps Hudson told him it was meant to be handed over on a later mission. The next time they met was in May, and Thomas no doubt asked him about it again. In one of his signals that month Thomas reported to Cairo that he had confirmed with a Chetnik commander that only a part of the promised gold had been delivered to them. Thomas didn't accuse Hudson in his signal. We know they met again in December, in Montenegro, and were seen talking together."  
"How much gold did Hudson bury?"  
"Apparently £80,000 worth."

Elizabeth turned away with a look of disgust mixed with grief, shaking her head. With her back to him, she rested a hand on the desk to steady herself before asking,  
"What is the evidence...that he murdered Thomas?"  
Foyle spoke softly,  
"...There were fragments...of what has been identified as a limpet mine...found in the debris of the lorry Thomas was driving."

She bowed her head a moment, then nodded, and informed him quietly,  
"One of Hudson's first missions in '42 was to place limpet mines on German and Italian warships in Montenegrin harbours. He had been issued with six, but in the end had used only four successfully. He told Colonel Wilson that he had dropped an unarmed mine by accident over the side of a rowboat in deep water and hadn't been able to recover it. The last one, he had buried far up on a beach, but he said he couldn't remember exactly where."

"Yyes. It was noted in his file. I'm...very sorry, Elizabeth."  
Christopher approached her with caution, unsure if she would want his sympathy or support at this moment.  
She quickly turned and took refuge in his arms, weeping on his shoulder with quiet indrawn breaths.

Eventually her trembling subsided, then she clarified,  
"...And Hudson accused Tom of taking the gold."  
"It would appear so. Wright will have the official record of the inquiry."  
"Can he be brought in? Can he be charged and arrested?"  
"He can. And he will be."  
After a last tight embrace, Elizabeth stepped back to pull herself together and dry her face with her handkerchief.  
"Thank-you, Christopher."  
She frowned at the carpet, dabbing at her eyes and shaking her head.  
"I'm...not sure I need attend this meeting — unless anything else will be discussed...and you feel I should be present?"  
Worried for her emotional state, he readily agreed,  
"No, of course-."  
Then, furrowing his brows, he confessed,  
"_Em_… Don't like to leave you on your own."  
"That's very kind, but I _have_ been, for…" Not bothering to finish the sentence, she raised her head in a show of resilience.  
Laying his hand gently on her arm, Christopher looked into her eyes,  
"You...needn't be, Elizabeth."  
Foyle recognised that his priorities had shifted.  
"...Arthur can handle the meeting. W-we should get away from this place."  
Moved by his offer, she nodded,  
"I'd like that."

* * *

Arthur Valentine was rather thrown off balance when Foyle suddenly approached him at speed as he reached the top of the stairs, thrust a heavy briefcase into his already full arms, and asked him to present their findings on the Addis murder to Myerson and two agents from MI6. He'd only just returned, as per Foyle's telephoned instructions, from a hurried visit to Hilda's flat to retrieve the pertinent files on Hudson. While he was eager to contribute to this new briefing, he hadn't expected to find himself in charge of it.

Valentine felt a sudden sinking sensation, realising how much he had come to rely on Foyle's leadership and how comfortable he had become in the role of junior investigator. In the months since their first meeting at Southampton, in which he'd bullied the soft spoken man into facing Hilda Pierce, he'd developed a grudging, and then sincere respect for his integrity and fairness, his kindness, and for his investigative acuity.

"Well—. Hang on, Foyle, you haven't told me this morning's development. You can't expect me to go in there missing key information!"

Already halfway down the corridor again, his colleague came to a halt and tipped his head back with impatience at himself.  
"Right. Sorry."  
Taking back the briefcase, Foyle led him to an empty office where he was able to set down his burden of files. He explained the arrest of Zollner in Belgrade, Hudson's buried gold, Tom's signal in May of 1943 about the missing gold, and the two SIS agents pursuing Dr. Addis.  
As Valentine finished his hurried notes he remarked,  
"Eighty-thousand pounds? Well, that is certainly strong motive for murder and false accusation..."  
Arthur took in Foyle's obviously preoccupied state — he was already glancing towards the door, wanting to leave — and the fact that they weren't using his office, and deduced,  
"Ah. You've just broken it to her? I understand."

They heard clipped footsteps in the corridor and Dr. Addis appeared, looking like someone who's just had a stern talk with herself.  
"It's all right, gentlemen. I _will_ attend the meeting. For Tom. And I owe it to Hilda."

Valentine found himself decidedly relieved to know he wouldn't have to face the often impatient, occasionally hostile, Deputy Director alone.  
Christopher drew himself up to his full height, regarding Elizabeth with admiration.  
"Need a moment to re-read your evidence? To arrange your notes?"  
"No, it's all falling into place now."  
She reached for her briefcase, but with glowing eyes he demurred,  
"Happy to carry it for you."

TBC...


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Sir Alec Myerson, et al. jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, Mr. Rupert Vansittart, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended.

**Thanks:** Many thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering invaluable suggestions for improvements to the story.

**Author's note:** An end to most of the technical, historical detail in this chapter, surely. Can we get to the romance next? Let's hope so.

* * *

Chapter 20

Following behind as they all walked into the Deputy Director's office, Valentine was further thrown off-kilter when he took in the two MI6 agents standing by the conference table, and discovered that he knew one of those gentlemen... rather well. The nature of their friendship meant that they'd only exchanged first names, had never discussed their professions or the kind of work they did. In fact, because of the sort of men they were, they'd both sworn to obey an unspoken 'official secrets act' their entire adult lives. During their evenings together they didn't discuss or share stories of their workday, except in the vaguest terms, lest they give something away. They'd exchanged telephone numbers, but had never met at each other's homes.

Arthur felt his heartbeat accelerate as they were introduced by Myerson. He shook hands — but couldn't quite manage to make eye contact — with David Wright.

A year older and a half-inch shorter than himself, Arthur had been drawn to David's warm brown eyes, his understated humour and ironic smile, and the touch of grey at his temples complementing his neat, wavy dark hair. They'd known each other six months, and were now exclusively together amongst their other friends at the club. It was a place they'd chosen as the most comfortable and accommodating for their taste, offering a sophisticated and respectable ambiance. There was limited choice in what they could enjoy and experience together in public, without drawing suspicion or scrutiny.

As the two MI6 agents settled into chairs on the far side of the table, Arthur stole a glance that confirmed David was equally disconcerted to see him, but was hiding it reasonably well. Then he took his seat and sorted the files and papers in front of him without really seeing them.

* * *

Foyle introduced Dr. Addis to the Deputy Director, and noticed that he regarded her with an air of dissatisfaction. Christopher set the briefcase on the conference table, opened it, and consulted closely with Elizabeth as to which documents she required and in what order, but was interrupted when Myerson called him aside to the far corner of the room.

"I don't see that Mrs. Addis need attend this briefing, Foyle. I realise it concerns her, but she is no longer with the Service. Send her down for a cup of tea."

Christopher answered with equilibrium, but held Sir Alec's eyes,  
"_Doctor_ Addis is, in fact, the lead investigator. She has full security clearance. And, _er_, what would _Hilda_ have wanted, d'you think?"  
Myerson lifted a brow and reluctantly conceded the point.

They returned to the conference table, Foyle joining Elizabeth and Arthur on the near side, opposite the two agents, and the Deputy Director taking his seat at the head. Myerson eyed the MI6 agents critically before addressing his own people,  
"A new development _this morning_, Foyle? Your investigation is becoming unexpectedly urgent."  
The Senior Agent gave a brief, tight smile.  
"Well, this would appear to be one of those 'skeletons falling out of closets' you warned about, Sir Alec, when you first asked me to finish this investigation for Hilda Pierce. What we've learned this morning is...of the arrest in Belgrade of a British trade delegation member."

For Myerson's benefit, Foyle related the details of Stephen Zollner's arrest, his naming former SOE field agent William Hudson as his accomplice, and what he had attempted to smuggle in the diplomatic bag.  
The two agents reacted with shock and consternation to the revelation that it was Hudson who had buried the gold.  
Myerson reacted with anger to the amount of it,  
"Eighty thousand pounds! ...Could have supplied the Navy with a substantial number of Mark VIII torpedoes. This Yugoslavia business seems to have been entirely ill-advised."

Foyle then invited Mr. Wright and Mr. Easton to explain their investigation, ongoing since 1944, to find the missing gold.  
Before they could speak, however, an irritated Myerson demanded,  
"In what capacity did you begin this inquiry, gentlemen? It wasn't a matter for SIS."  
"No, Sir. It was begun within the War Office." Wright clarified.  
Myerson waved a hand for them to proceed.  
Easton cleared his throat nervously and began.  
"We were first alerted to the fact that the supply drop of gold from February '43 had not been delivered to the intended recipients, the Chetnik commanders in Serbia, in June of that year by a Liaison Officer attached to the Second _Ravna Gora_ Corps led by General Raković. The General—."

Myerson interrupted,  
"We hardly need a month by month _account_, Mr. Easton. Could you begin with your first interview of this Hudson fellow? And explain to me why you didn't have him charged at the _time_."

Easton reddened, swallowed, and looked to Wright for support.  
After a pause, in which his hooded eyes showed his own dissatisfaction with his colleague, Wright answered courteously, lacing his fingers together in front of himself on the table.  
"Of course, Sir Alec. We recalled Hudson from Bari, Italy to London for an interview in late April of 1944. He'd attained the rank of Colonel by then. He was very cooperative, very...plausible."  
Wright was acutely aware of the presence of Elizabeth Addis, and avoided looking at her.  
"Colonel Hudson acknowledged he had received the air drop in Serbia, explained the distribution of arms and ammunition on the ground, and...he told us he'd assigned the task of _carrying_ the gold to Captain Thomas Addis."

Elizabeth wasn't able to refrain from making a quiet noise of impatience.  
Easton broke in,  
"Addis was _there_, on the mission. We confirmed it with SOE."  
Foyle asked,  
"With whom, precisely, did you confirm it?"  
Easton hesitated and Wright answered,  
"With Major General Stawell, Sir."  
Wright continued,  
"In the interview, Hudson was surprised but unconcerned when we informed him that it appeared the gold was never received by General Raković, or indeed any other commander in the region."  
David Wright then related Hudson's response, demonstrating a remarkable facility for recalling conversations that was familiar, and in other circumstances quite enjoyable, to Valentine.

_"'Oh, well, chaps, the Chetniks can't be trusted to tell the truth. Remember we cut off support for them precisely because of their unreliability and shifting alliances. You'll find they used the gold to bribe the Germans or Nedić's puppet government, or to line their own pockets.'"_

Wright explained,  
"We told Colonel Hudson our own investigations and interviews in the field didn't support that view. When we asked if he could suggest a different explanation, he grew quite sombre, and seemed reluctant to divulge his information.

_'Look, there was...something… One odd incident. You see, I came upon Captain Addis alone in a forest outside a village we were occupying, working furiously with a shovel to fill in a deep hole. When I questioned what he was doing, Addis told me he was taking it upon himself to keep back half the gold until we had assurances that Raković would commit to engaging the Germans instead of attacking the Partisans. I'd taken Addis at his word — I agreed with him, for Christ's sake — and thought no more about it. We were assigned different missions soon after. ...__Are you telling me he never handed over the rest of it? I can't believe it was deliberate... There must be another explanation. ...Look, the poor bastard's cashed in his chips. Don't put this on his record.'"_

Myerson asked,  
"It was Hudson who raised the idea of theft by Captain Addis?"  
"Yes, Sir Alec. ...He seemed genuinely distressed over it. When we asked him to pinpoint on a map where he had seen Addis digging, he said his memory wasn't clear, but he named a location near a village in western Serbia. We were able to send a detail from a nearby mission with the Partisans to search the area. Unfortunately, nothing was found."

"And at that point you turned your attention to his wife, Dr. Elizabeth Addis?" Foyle asked.  
Wright shifted in his chair, but had the decency to acknowledge her now with a glance.  
"Yes. Colonel Hudson had, by then, returned to the Italian campaign. We interviewed Mrs.—_Doctor_ Addis, and began our surveillance."  
Foyle grimaced in dissatisfaction,  
"A _three year_ surveillance. Why? Did you have _any_ other testimony — or any evidence at all — to justify this...harassment?"  
Valentine turned his eyes to his colleague, aware of a note of personal animosity in the question.  
Before Wright could stop him, Easton asserted, as if she weren't in the room,  
"They'd had a secret code — Addis and his wife — when she was stationed at Cairo."  
Foyle rested his chin on his knuckles, watching Easton and waiting for him to continue.  
When there was nothing more forthcoming, Valentine prompted,  
"You had their messages decrypted? Did they ever discuss the missing gold?"  
Wright answered over top of Easton's voice.  
"We did. No… Not as far as we could tell."

Elizabeth had observed the two men from behind a neutral mask, but now she allowed herself an irritated twitch of the lips.  
Myerson, with a disgruntled sigh, concluded,  
"So you were _wrong_, gentlemen. Wrong to take Hudson's word, wrong to release him, wrong to accuse Captain Addis, and wrong to suspect Dr. Addis."  
While Easton made motions to contradict, Wright agreed,  
"We were wrong, Sir."  
He turned and met Elizabeth's eyes,  
"I apologise, Dr. Addis."  
Valentine offered his friend a look of sympathetic approval.

Elizabeth glanced at Christopher, and then regarded David Wright a little less coldly as she responded,  
"If you had let me know the purpose of your investigation, if you had even mentioned Colonel Hudson's name, I could have helped. We might have cleared this up three years ago, Mr. Wright."  
Foyle smiled inwardly, recognising a version of the words he had said to her after he'd learned that she'd been asked to spy on him.

She laid her hands on the files and papers in front of her, smoothing them with her fingers.  
"Let me share with you the information I have."

Elizabeth outlined for them the indications of her husband's efforts in 1943 to deal with Captain Will Hudson. The necessarily cryptic entries from Thomas's personal journals, war diaries, and the signal to SOE Cairo — never explicitly referring to the theft of gold — revealed an ongoing effort to quietly persuade Hudson to carry out his mission as ordered.  
Myerson asked,  
"When did you come into possession of your husband's papers, Dr. Addis?"  
"I received them in September of '44. Some nine months after his death."  
"I see." He nodded for her to continue.  
She read from copies of his last series of signals asking Col. Wilson for details of the support dropped to Chetnik HQs on certain missions, which indicated that Thomas was preparing an official report. And she had a copy of Wilson's unhelpful reply, in which he suggested that Hudson was the best man to ask about that.

After a look of silent consultation with Elizabeth, Foyle submitted the statement from Captain Michael Rees, who had witnessed Addis in serious conversation with Hudson in Montenegro in mid-December, just before his death.

Finally, steeling herself against the difficult memory, Elizabeth informed them,  
"Soon after your interrogation of Colonel Hudson, he came to see me at my home. He was drunk, and aggressive."  
Wright looked appalled.  
"He asked me questions that seemed absurd at the time."  
Elizabeth opened a small personal diary and read from her notes, written down after Hudson's assault. Sitting beside her, Foyle, with dismay, saw the faded, rust-coloured blood smears on the pages.  
He looked up at the MI6 agent, and his eyes bored into Wright's as they listened.  
"...As you can see, his questions to me concerned what my husband had known or learned about the supply drops, and whether Thomas had made inquiries to Hudson's commanders in Cairo. I knew nothing of this at the time, and when my answers were unsatisfactory, Hudson became agitated and violent."

Myerson glared at the two men from the opposite agency with disdain and disapproval,  
"I fail to see _why_ you didn't immediately detain Hudson and investigate thoroughly."

Neither agent had an answer they would voice. Wright apologised again, adding,  
"We will undertake to locate Colonel Hudson at once and, with all possible speed, recall him from his current posting with the Army."  
Myerson reprimanded,  
"See that you do."

Foyle began to brace himself for the difficult task of presenting again, in front of the man's widow, the stark evidence of Thomas Addis's murder, but then stood down as he saw that Elizabeth had more to say.

"Gentlemen, I'd like to draw your attention to the case of Major Kenneth Alderton and _Operation Hydra_. His mission, comprising another officer and a wireless transmitter operator, parachuted into Yugoslavia in the Spring of '42 to reestablish contact and friendly relations with Chetnik resistance groups after William Hudson had lost the trust of General Mihailovich. The mission brought supplies, ammunition and support, including one million Italian _lire_ and two thousand gold sovereigns that Alderton carried strapped around his waist.  
"The mission's other task was to _search_ for Captain Hudson. Hudson was considered missing because he was no longer communicating with Cairo by radio. That had been his decision — three months earlier he'd left the radio behind deliberately, so as to travel light."

Valentine's attention was drawn to David Wright, who, anticipating where this was leading, winced and ran his fingers down his temple as if in pain.

"As it turned out, it was Hudson who found _them_. Using _Operation Hydra_'s radio, he reported back to Cairo in April of '42, that he'd discovered the bodies of the three men, murdered and robbed of everything they had brought. Local Partisans and Chetniks pointed fingers at each other, while Hudson suggested that it was marauding bandits who had killed them. And it was Hudson who wrote the official, inconclusive report on their deaths."  
Dr. Addis selected and handed across the table a document from her collection.  
"In his official report, Hudson refers to the money that Major Alderton carried. I can find no prior communication from Cairo to Hudson about _Operation Hydra_ in which the money is mentioned."  
Elizabeth let the two MI6 agents, and indeed everyone at the table, ponder this unexpected information for a moment.  
Christopher, again full of admiration for her, had to cover his expression with a forefinger laid across his mouth in a thoughtful pose.

Easton squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, but kept silent, while David Wright, after quickly scanning the report, shut his eyes in self-reproach.  
"Thank-you, Dr. Addis, for bringing this to our attention. We will, of course, pursue it."

Then Elizabeth yielded the floor, passing the lead over to her colleagues.  
"Mr. Foyle and Mr. Valentine have information for you related to the...death...of Captain Thomas Addis."  
She rose from her chair, leaving all the documents on the table, and after a pointed look at Mr. Wright, said coolly,  
"If you'll excuse me."

All the gentlemen got up, and Myerson watched in surprise as Foyle accompanied her to the door, murmuring quiet words before closing it behind her.  
Then, returning to the table, Foyle signalled Arthur to present his evidence.

To be continued...


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Sir Alec Myerson, et al. jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, Mr. Rupert Vansittart, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended.

**Thanks:** Immense gratitude to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering suggestions for improvements to the story.

* * *

Chapter 21

Valentine described the circumstances of Captain Addis's death as outlined in the report made at the time. He handed round the photographs, explaining technical details of the limpet mine fragments found in the debris of the lorry.  
Myerson asked,  
"Addis was driving eastwards from the headquarters on the Montenegrin coast?"  
"Yes."  
"Where was he going?"  
"What we've determined is that he was quite likely heading for the landing strip where Colonel Stuart was to be flown out to the new HQ at Bari, Italy."  
Foyle supplied,  
"Colonel Stuart had set up the briefing for all the liaison officers from the various missions, and was the highest ranking commander available."  
Sir Alec nodded,  
"The proper man for Addis to alert regarding the gold theft."

Valentine then provided the information on William Hudson's previous use of limpet mines in the region and his inability to account for two of the six he had been supplied with.  
"No other SOE agent serving in the region had been issued with this type of ordnance, so it is extremely likely that this was, in fact, the mine Hudson had buried on the beach. And only Hudson had the motive, the means, and the expertise in modifying the mine's detonator, to carry this out."

Myerson checked his impulse to chastise Valentine for the use, again, of police parlance — 'motive and means' — recognising that it was perfectly applicable in this case.

Jack Easton, still smarting from the exposure of their inadequate, botched investigation, asked in a doubting, ridiculing tone,  
"How do you know so much about limpet mines, Mr. Valentine? Read up on them, have you?"  
Wright stared hard at the table.  
Arthur paused before turning his attention to the younger man,  
"I placed eight on German supply ships in Boulogne Harbour, and six in Ostend. I am quite familiar with them."  
Easton dropped the smug smile and mumbled a reply.  
This was new information to Foyle about his colleague's War service, and he saw that Sir Alec was examining Valentine with heightened respect.  
David Wright allowed himself a long look of apology and appreciation at Arthur.

Sir Alec summed up the situation, glaring at the two MI6 agents,  
"You had in your grasp a man who had committed murders of at least four fellow servicemen, a man who sought to enrich himself at the expense of the War effort, and who undoubtedly has committed further crimes yet to be discovered. 'Plausible,' was he?"

There was nothing the two could say in their defence, in the stark glare of the facts, and both were further dismayed as Christopher Foyle now sat forward to continue the briefing.  
"The focus of Hilda Pierce's inquiry..., an inquiry undertaken on behalf of a grieving widow, was to learn the fate of Captain Thomas Addis. The further into the matter Miss Pierce delved, the more disturbing the facts became. She found no official record of his death, other than the hurried field report made on the scene as battle lines were shifting.  
"She found an indication of a _charge_ of treason, perhaps a posthumous _conviction_ of treason, yet no supporting documents pertaining to that very serious accusation."  
He produced Addis's personnel file, the document bordered on one side with black, and indicated the paper clip indentation that suggested missing documents.  
"Can you explain this?"  
Easton, perplexed, raised his voice,  
"The record of the court martial was attached! It was filed immediately in April of 1944!"  
Foyle leaned over the table,  
"You're saying the court martial was concluded with only Hudson's testimony? No witnesses for the defence?"  
"...There was a war on!" Easton fell back on the old excuse for all manner of inadequacy and incompetence over the past seven years.  
With clenched jaw, Foyle asked,  
"Did you interview _anyone_ else after this accusation was made by Hudson? Did you call any witnesses for the defence, anyone who had served in Yugoslavia with Captain Addis?"  
Neither agent responded, and both avoided the older man's eyes.  
"Wull, ..._I've_ interviewed two former SOE officers here in London who held Thomas Addis in high regard, and who described him as well-respected."  
This time Easton only muttered,  
"There was _no time-_-. There was a war on."

Tilting his head to stare at the wall opposite, Foyle continued,  
"An honorable man's otherwise spotless military service record has been destroyed. Captain Addis was blackmarked — posthumously and with no opportunity of defence — as disloyal, as a traitor. He was nothing of the kind,"  
He turned his eyes on Wright, "..._was_ he?"  
Wright answered,  
"No, sir."  
Wright cleared his throat, distanced himself from his partner with a pivot of the shoulders towards his interrogator, and offered,  
"One would expect that it was Hudson who removed the documents… However, we cannot rule out that it was directed by officials of the War Office."  
Foyle's expression changed to one of interest, as he recognised cooperation in the man's words.  
"'We'?" He questioned.  
Wright looked around the table, ignoring his partner who was shrinking into the background.  
"Members of this inquiry, sir. I should hope we're on the same side."  
Myerson raised an eyebrow,  
"Indeed. Continue, Mr. Wright."

Valentine sent his friend a glance of encouragement, and David explained,  
"There was a sense of panic throughout the department that one or more of them would be held accountable for the loss of such a sum. Further efforts were made to find the gold during 1944 and up until 1945, when the new Communist government, _er_, ...invited us... to leave the country. At that point, the removal, from various files, of every possible document regarding the matter, would lessen the chance of discovery and embarrassment. The War Office hoped that the gold theft would be forgotten. At the end of the War only Easton and I were left on the case, with direction to pursue only one avenue of investigation — Addis's widow."

Myerson asked,  
"How far up the line of command did this matter reach? Not to Sir Percy Grigg, surely?"  
Wright attentively turned and answered the Deputy Director,  
"Not to the War Secretary, sir, no. ...It went as high as the Financial Secretary."  
"There have been three men in that post at the War Office since '43. Were all three made aware of this?"  
Easton, visibly perspiring, looked pleadingly at his colleague, but Wright continued to ignore him.  
"The last communication over this was with Lord Rowley, sir, in May of '44."  
Myerson acknowledged the information with a nod that gave no clue as to what he intended to do with it.

Wright offered,  
"With your support and under your authority, Sir Alec, we will see to it that the Court Martial verdict on Captain Addis's case is overturned, that all his military service records and personnel records are corrected."  
"Very good. When Colonel Hudson is, inevitably, under military arrest and likely to face a Court Martial, that result should follow without delay or difficulty." Myerson concurred.  
Foyle reminded them,  
"Captain Addis was certainly eligible for several service medals, campaign medals, and a military pension for his widow."  
Wright answered,  
"We will see to it, sir. And that the posthumous awarding of medals is gazetted."  
Myerson wound up the briefing,  
"Right. Well, I'm not finished with you two."  
He turned to his own agents,  
"Mr. Foyle and Mr. Valentine, thank-you. Convey my appreciation to Dr. Addis. Excellent work. ...All of you."

* * *

Apprehensive of finding Elizabeth alone in a flood of tears, Foyle left the briefing before Arthur did, and paced quickly down the long corridor to his office. On opening the door he saw it was empty. He stepped inside, and was relieved to see her coat and hat on the stand next to his. Thinking she might return shortly, he stood indecisively in the middle of the room for a moment, stroking his chin, but then a sound caught his attention. There was a strange, droning, tinny voice coming from another office, but it ceased abruptly.

Hearing light footsteps approaching from the hall, Foyle went to the door. It was Charlotte Brown. The pretty young woman seemed unusually bright-eyed, and smiled at him,  
"Mr. Foyle. Dr. Addis is in Miss Pierce's office. She said I should let you know."  
"Thank-you, Charlotte."  
He started to head in that direction, but the researcher had hesitated, on the verge of saying more. Foyle came to a halt and gave her his attention, curious.  
"Sir, I found it! — The recorded interview that Miss Pierce and Sir Alec wanted. I would have brought it to _you_, but when I saw Dr. Addis in the building, well, I knew it concerned her and so…"  
"Perfectly correct, Miss Brown. Well done. ..._Er_, where did you find the recording?"  
"It was amongst the belongings confiscated from Mr. Chambers' home, sir. Awaiting inspection, classification and accessioning at the Archives."  
He raised an eyebrow in surprise,  
"I'd've thought such things would be of _current_ interest."  
"...You might be surprised at what gets filed away without much examination, sir."  
He smiled in agreement at her wry humour.  
She gave a nod and continued on her way.

Foyle made for Hilda's office.  
The door was ajar so after a brief knock he pushed it open, and found Elizabeth sitting behind the large, impressive desk.  
Unexpectedly, she was holding a pair of headphones, pressing one side to her ear as a recording played on a portable machine on the desktop.  
She looked up and waved him over with some excitement.  
"It's the original recording of the interview at the CPGB offices."  
She lifted her hand from the document open in front of her, which Foyle recognised as the transcript.  
"Charlotte brought me _this_, too — Hilda had back-up copies made. I'm halfway through the recording and it's _not_ identical. There _are_ omissions in the transcript."  
Foyle pulled up a chair beside her, and when she offered, drew closer and leaned in to press the other earpiece to his head.  
The voice on the recording was what he'd heard earlier— high-pitched and tinny, the man droning on as if enchanted with his own ideas, decidedly pleased with himself. Christopher realised with a half-smile that Elizabeth's mimicry of that voice yesterday at Hilda's flat had been quite accurate.  
After five minutes of listening he sat back to look at his wristwatch, and silently showed the time to Elizabeth. She took the headset away from her ear to respond.  
"It's all right. I've telephoned to cancel my tutorial."  
Christopher nodded, but declined to listen to more of the recording. He watched her as she monitored the confessions of the other traitor in this case, Norman Klugeman, and admired her composure and her persistence. She tracked the typewritten words with a forefinger and turned the pages of the transcript as she listened, her expression serious, bordering on grim.

After another few minutes he reached across to put his hand over hers on the document to get her attention. Elizabeth set the headphones on her lap, turned the knob to stop the recording, and looked at him.  
"You...sure you want to listen to all of that right now?"  
Puzzled, she replied,  
"Yes. Why do you ask?"  
"W-Oh...it's been a long...and eventful...morning. A lot to take in. Thought you might like a break."  
Her answer was brusque,  
"I'd like to_ finish_ this, and have the rest of the day _off_."  
He couldn't disguise his sudden hurt and crestfallen expression, and Elizabeth saw she needed to clarify at once.  
"...With _you_, Christopher."  
She squeezed his hand.  
"I meant...I'd prefer to get this _over _with, and be free to spend the rest of the day with _you_."  
She sought his eyes,  
"Sorry. I suppose I am rather wound up."  
He smiled in genuine relief.  
"Quite understand. ...Cup of tea?"  
She gaped, asking in a near whisper,  
"Are you serious? _You'd_ bring me a cup of tea? _Here?_" She glanced towards the door.  
Christopher edged closer, lifting her fingers to his lips,  
"I _would_. But...don't let Arthur find out. He'll expect the same."  
Elizabeth chuckled at his mock worry.  
Foyle stood and gestured at the magnetic wire recorder,  
"_Erm_...Carry on."  
"Thank-you..." Her upturned face glowed with affection. "Shouldn't be much longer."  
"Right. We'll meet in my office when you're done?"

To be continued...


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Sir Alec Myerson, et al. jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, Mr. Rupert Vansittart, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended.

**Thanks:** Many thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering excellent suggestions for improvements to the story.

**Author's note:** There are a couple of footnotes. Also, many important buildings in London, during the War, had deceptive nameplates on them, to trick any invading enemy into thinking they were innocent mercantile businesses.

* * *

Chapter 22

Before quitting the conference room Valentine did his best to convey his encouragement to David. Rather than walking out in Foyle's wake, he edged around the table to offer a handshake and a private word, knowing from personal experience how unpleasant a dressing down from Myerson could be. He murmured,  
"My private office is just down the hall on the right."  
Then added lightly,  
"I'll...leave the door open."  
Despite his impending ordeal, Wright met his friend's eyes with an amused quirk of the mouth,  
"Thank you, ...Mr. Valentine."

Not very successfully attempting to work at his desk, Arthur kept an eye on the corridor, and an ear listening for the escape following the end of Myerson's presumed tirade.  
As he waited he pieced together previous conversations and worked out who Jack Easton was, having heard from his friend how David was perpetually irritated by and worried over the blunders of his partner, who was protected in his position by a lofty family connection. At last the door opened and two sets of footfalls sounded, one at a fast clip and the other at a more leisurely pace. A rather pale Easton hurried by without a glance, and then David appeared in the doorway, smiling in a perfectly composed manner.

Seeing that his friend had come out of the lion's den unscathed, Valentine, with a twinkle in his eyes, queried,  
"So you're with the _Minimax Fire Extinguisher Company_? I had no idea." *  
David answered straight-faced,  
"And that's how it should be."

* * *

Foyle walked in to Hilda's office and wordlessly set a hot cup of tea down on the desk. Elizabeth was now taking notes on a narrow-ruled pad of paper, and was so absorbed in listening to the debriefing that she hadn't noticed his return. But at the miraculous appearance of the steaming teacup in front of her, she switched off the machine, removed the headphones, and looked up.  
"Not joining me?"  
Turning back from three steps away, Christopher hesitated between the desk and the door, and smiled uncertainly,  
"Wull..., didn't want to interrupt."  
With a wince of compunction Elizabeth rose, walked around to stand before him and picked up his hand,  
"I'm really very sorry about...earlier, Christopher. It must've sounded like I snapped at you. I didn't mean to."  
He tipped his head towards her work with a considering moue,  
"Not at all. You wanted to finish this. Perfectly understandable. ...Must be wearing on the nerves, listening to all that."  
"It is." She heaved a sigh,  
"I want to undo just..._some_ part of all the wrong that was done…"  
She gestured around the room sadly,  
"And I suppose...sitting here in Hilda's office, ...and this morning hearing on the radio that Ellen Wilkinson* has died at only fifty-five…"

Foyle had also heard with regret of the untimely death of the hard-working Member of Parliament. He saw Elizabeth was holding back tears, and put a comforting hand on her upper arm.  
She gave her head a little shake and offered an apologetic smile,  
"Too much added gloom today...in this never-ending, cold winter…* What I long for right now is a walk on the embankment on a bright, warm, spring afternoon. Can you arrange that, d'you think?"  
They both turned to the window where the rain was battering on the glass in dark grey torrents.  
"I'll...put in a word, but, _em_, never had much clout in that department."  
As they watched the rain together, Christopher slipped his arm around her, and was gratified when Elizabeth rested the side of her head against his, closing her eyes — even if she was only giving in to weariness.  
He swept the tip of his tongue across his lips, and made a decision.  
"Wwwould it be difficult...to make arrangements...to get away for a few days?"  
She opened her eyes.  
"Get away? Where?"  
"Mmy home's...in Hastings. Wwe...could go down on the train. Have a few days on the South Coast. The weather's been a little better there. Might even see the sun."  
Elizabeth lifted her head and regarded him with wonder.  
"That sounds...absolutely heavenly."

* * *

Valentine and Wright shook hands again as the latter prepared to depart, while Foyle and Elizabeth waited further up the corridor, near Sir Alec's office. Foyle carried the portable wire recorder by its leather handle, but soon set it down on the floor as it was remarkably heavy for its size.  
The door opened and two other Security Service agents walked out, conferring over the details of their current assignment.  
Myerson stood in the doorway, head tilted back, and surveyed the scattered group.  
"Ah, I take it you have something more for me, Mr. Foyle, Dr. Addis."  
"We do."  
Sir Alec's attention moved past them, down the corridor. As Valentine turned from his friend and approached his colleagues alone, the Deputy Director raised his voice,  
"Mr. Wright. A moment, if you will."  
David whirled around smartly, and joined Arthur to make their way back together.

Myerson gestured them all inside his private office again, and said to the MI6 agent,  
"You seem very much like someone we can work with, Mr. Wright. That is not often the case with our counterparts at 54 Broadway. I'd appreciate your remaining while we further discuss the Addis file."  
"I'm at your disposal, Sir Alec." He gave a slight bow of the head.  
Valentine watched the exchange with great interest.

"Dr. Addis," Myerson observed Foyle setting the machine on the conference table, "is this the recording of the Norman Klugeman interview?"  
"It is, Sir Alec. It was located by Miss Brown. ...At the archives."  
She held up the transcript,  
"The written version _has_ been redacted, as you warned. There are significant… _confessions_… and admissions in the recording that I believe should be brought to light."  
The Deputy Director lifted a brow and regarded her attentively,  
"Indeed. Evidently William Chambers was not alone in his efforts to suppress it. Very well. I should be quite interested to hear what this man was up to in Yugoslavia. Do be seated."

Foyle waited for the others to take their places, and explained for Wright's benefit,  
"This...is the last twenty minutes of an interview in August 1945, between Norman Klugeman and Robert Stewart, recorded in the offices of the Communist Party of Great Britain. Klugeman served, from 1942 on, in the Cairo office of SOE, where Dr. Addis also served. As you know, Captain Thomas Addis operated out of the Cairo office, serving as a field agent and liaison officer on missions to Chetnik commanders in Yugoslavia."

Wright inclined his head to signal his understanding.  
Foyle switched on the recording, and then sat down next to Elizabeth.

The pedantic, tedious, self-satisfied voice, made more tinny by the machine's built-in speakers, filled the room.

_"...I've said before that I don't like to mix political work with covert intelligence work. One or the other, yes, but not both."  
_There was a pause and the sound of a match struck and a pipe lit and drawn.  
_"However, the complexities at Cairo demanded an all out effort."_

_"Were you never suspected, comrade?"_

_"I did feel some danger towards the end of '43…, shortly before the meetings of the Prime Minister and the President. There was, you see, a troublesome woman at the Cairo office, Assistant to the Major General… She was far too observant for my liking…and had assembled a dossier of her observations… Her husband was a liaison officer to the Chetniks, out in the field where he witnessed certain engagements. The two of them came much too close to causing real interference in my work. ...It was a simple thing to have his requested leave denied, to refuse him transport back to Cairo, but when it came to arranging her abduction on short notice, well, that took some effort…"_

Sir Alec's eyes registered alarm as he regarded Dr. Addis over his steepled fingers. Foyle gave a subtle nod of confirmation.

_"In the end I seized an opportunity to have the woman transferred here...to SOE Baker Street, where our other friends might keep watch over her. However that proved unnecessary...as everything by then had so gratifyingly gone our way..."_

_"If these two were a real concern, Norman, surely more action was required?"_

_"Indeed it was, and this is where a fortuitous mystery rears its head. You see, in mid-December the threat of interference became so great that I saw the absolute necessity of taking direct action myself. ...To look at me, comrade, you might find it difficult to imagine, but in fact... I arranged a flight for myself and parachuted in to Montenegro."  
__"You leapt out of an aeroplane, Norman?"  
__"I did, Bob. It really was vital. I armed myself with a revolver and went in search of the liaison officer. He was the only man who might have derailed our interests, and that couldn't be allowed—."_

Myerson raised a hand and Foyle moved to switch off the recorder.  
"Norman Klugeman, then, fully intended to carry out an assassination of Captain Thomas Addis. Dr. Addis, your instincts — and Miss Pierce's — with regard to this man were entirely correct."  
Elizabeth lifted her head in acknowledgment, and only Christopher saw in her eyes the glistening of tears held in check.  
At Myerson's signal Foyle resumed the playback.

_"—to happen. But when I landed I heard that the man had been killed already, under suspicious circumstances."  
__"You had no agents in the vicinity?"  
__"None. I could hardly believe the talk, but I was in no position to ask to see the body. ...As a cover story I had made arrangements to rendezvous with the nearest Partisan camp, so I simply carried on."  
__"Ah, well, I envy you the adventure — on the battlefield with the glorious proletariat! I know you speak the language — were you warmly welcomed?"  
__"Er…, well, I offered my services, and my congratulations — on their military successes and on the political triumph — but they really had no clear idea of who I was. Nor, of course, any understanding of my work on their behalf. ...I did meet Marshal Tito and shake his hand." *  
__"From what you've told me, the Partisans owe their victory in Yugoslavia substantially to you, comrade."  
__"That is very kind of you to say, Bob, but...of course... I wouldn't lay claim to any of the glory…"_

Arthur and David both rolled their eyes.

_"...Your rise through the ranks of the Special Operations Executive was remarkable. To what do you attribute your ability to remain undiscovered?"  
__"Sincerity and sympathy, comrade. Always allay suspicion. ...Oh, but I had many friends along the way…, even very early on at Aldershot. Warning letters from MI5, and requests for information on my work, ...continually went astray."_

There was a high-pitched giggle, and the listeners traded glances of annoyed disbelief.

_"...Like Mary's little lamb, these letters followed behind me..., but somehow always arrived too late, after I'd moved on to the next posting. And then there was my tame Brigadier, who wouldn't hear a word against me."_

_"Well, tell me more about this, er…, troublesome...woman. Wasn't she potentially recruitable?"_

_"Oh, indeed. I expended a great deal of energy to try to awaken her to the cause…and with a little more time, I think she would have come over to our side."_

Dr. Addis grimaced as three pairs of eyes shifted towards her and away again.

_"...A woman capable of that level of intellectual reasoning and discourse, with a thorough knowledge of history…must have seen the true path eventually. ...When she was transferred...I...was sorry to lose her, but...the Party first, always."_

_"And yet you didn't have her eliminated during the abduction."_

There was a long pause on the recording, Myerson raised his brows, and everyone around the table noted the unexpected sudden chill between the two voices.

_"Err… No. No, I didn't see the need to go through— to go that far, Bob… The plan was in place to have her transferred and to eliminate her husband. ...Grief proved a sufficient deterrent."_

Elizabeth shut her eyes, bowed her head, and reached for Christopher's hand under the table. He leaned close to her ear and asked,  
"Shall I stop it? Need a moment?"  
She shook her head, squeezing his hand, and then glanced at him with gratitude.  
The other men around the table contrived not to notice their exchange.

The voice of Robert Stewart had become less friendly.  
_"You might well think that. And yet our friends inside the Broadway building raised the alert that she was conducting interviews...related to suspicions of a sleeper agent."  
__"Yes, yes, but my understanding was that the inquiry had to do with the betrayal of circuits in France, to the Germans, by fascist sympathisers — nothing to do with our work in Yugoslavia. And she's no longer a factor..."  
__"What did you mean when you said you were 'sorry to lose her?'"_

Another silence between the two men. Klugeman cleared his throat.  
_"I've always affirmed that my loyalty is to the Party, comrade. I've nothing to offer when it comes to...personal relations."_

The interrogator chuckled, as if his question had been an innocent one,  
_"Very well, comrade. ...A thorough account of your efforts in the cause."_

On the recording they heard the sounds of chairs creaking and the two men taking leave of each other. Foyle switched off the machine.  
Myerson pursed his lips, and after a pause said tersely to Valentine,  
"Right. Bring him in."

* * *

Christopher ushered Elizabeth into Hilda's office again, and they faced each other behind the closed door, Foyle watchful for her reaction to the meeting.  
To his surprise she wore a small, satisfied smile.  
"I...feel I'm beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel."  
She stepped closer, saying earnestly,  
"This could all be over soon. ...Thank you, Christopher."  
"Wull, glad to help." He answered, still unsure, until she put her arms around his shoulders.  
"Would it be wrong to celebrate...the end of that—?" She tipped her head towards the conference room, then met his eyes hopefully,  
"And the beginning...of something new?"

He considered that she'd been dealing with the treachery of SOE Cairo since her assignment there in 1942, and was about to see two traitors brought to justice largely by her own efforts.  
Foyle also considered that he hadn't wanted to work for the Security Service in the first place.  
"I'd say five years of your life is more than sufficient."  
Pulling her closer, Christopher affirmed with a twinkle in his eye,  
"And...a celebration is definitely in order..."  
They kissed briefly, found themselves smiling in unspoken agreement, and after he tilted his head towards it, both headed for the door.

There was no one in the corridor. They walked quickly to his office, helped each other with coats and hats, and made a swift departure from the building. The downpour had let up a little so they were only slightly rain spattered as they climbed into his car. Breathless and chuckling at their escape, Elizabeth was surprised when Christopher immediately started the motor and drove away with determination.  
"Where are we going…?"  
"I...know a place. Think you'll like it."  
She watched him, amused, as he took the corner at speed, his bottom lip between his teeth.  
"You've given this some thought, haven't you?"  
For the first time she saw him grin, and that was his full answer.

To be continued...

* * *

**Footnotes:**  
* 'Minimax Fire Extinguisher Company' (a real maker of such equipment) was the brass plaque on the door of the MI6 building at 54 Broadway during World War II.

* Ellen Wilkinson, MP, and Parliamentary Secretary for the Home Department during the War, had worked tirelessly for social improvements all her life, and was appointed Minister of Education by Labour Prime Minister Clement Attlee in August 1945. By this time, her health was poor, a legacy of years of overwork. Much of her energy was applied to organising the raising of the school-leaving age from 14 to 15. During the exceptionally cold weather of early 1947, she succumbed to a bronchial disease, and died after an overdose of medication, which the coroner at her inquest declared was accidental. (Wikipedia)

* The winter of 1946-47 had record snowfalls and cold temperatures, followed by heavy rains and severe flooding. (I might go back over the previous chapters and add in this detail, to increase the bleakness of the immediate post-war atmosphere.)

* James Norman Klugmann did parachute into Yugoslavia (though not to murder anyone), and there is a photograph of him with Marshal Tito and other Partisans.


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Sir Alec Myerson, et al. jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, Mr. Rupert Vansittart, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended.

**Thanks:** Many thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering suggestions for improvements to the story.

* * *

Chapter 23

Gazing across the white linen-draped table, Christopher admired the soft indentation of the suprasternal notch, the curve of the slender neck and the elegant jawline of his companion, whose angled and tipped-back head exposed all this to his view.

Elizabeth, on the rose-pink velvet banquette, contemplated in rapt pleasure the bright, sky-blue glass ceiling with floral motifs, occasionally closing her eyes as if sunbathing under it. He smiled in satisfaction, knowing he'd made an inspired choice for their impromptu celebration.

Still looking upward, Elizabeth declared dreamily,  
"I'm not leaving here until May…"

She lowered her gaze, rested her chin on her elegant fingers, and met his eyes, which were crinkled in affectionate amusement.  
"I'd heard of _Rules Restaurant_, but I'd no idea..." *  
After taking a sip of her wine, Elizabeth extended her other hand midway on the table. Christopher saw the invitation and accepted it, laying his hand on hers and caressing her fingers.  
"Pleased you like it."  
"I like it _very_ much. Though...I feel I should be dressed a little less—."  
"W'yes." He murmured.  
"—workaday."  
Elizabeth's mouth fell open in surprise as she realised what he'd implied, and her eyes flashed as she withdrew her hand. Foyle momentarily feared he'd made a mistake, until her fingers went to the buttons of her grey pinstriped suit jacket and she undid them quickly, shrugged off the garment and tossed it onto the seat beside her. Then she unfastened the next two buttons of her pale pink blouse.  
Foyle lifted his wine glass, bright-eyed and smiling behind it.  
Looking up into his face, Elizabeth offered,  
"There. I've shed my armour."  
"Armour...against the world?"  
She entwined her fingers in his again.  
"The world of academia, at any rate."  
"Of course."  
They shared a moment of quiet, happy communion, holding hands across the small table, and Christopher felt that the tension of the past few days had entirely dissolved for both of them. He saw the colour in her cheeks now was different, a positive glow of optimism and good spirits. Could it happen so quickly? He was willing to believe it could. He saw it in her face, and felt it in his own heart.  
"Ccould you, _er_...get away..._soon_…?"  
"Well, I've never cancelled a tutorial until today, so, yes, ...it wouldn't be an unreasonable request. Sedgewick will take my students. I've done it often enough for him."  
She was smiling in that same subtle conspiratorial way as when she'd agreed to translate the top secret French and Arabic documents, and he found it very attractive.  
"Good."

Just then the waiter arrived with their food and served it with finesse — breast of pheasant for Elizabeth and jugged hare for Christopher. Game of all kinds was off-ration, and _Rules_ had its own country estate to supply such fare.

Their table was to the side, under the more nature-themed of the ornate glass ceilings, in a quiet corner of the ground floor's main room. Only a few of the other tables were occupied, as they'd arrived at the very last moment for admittance to luncheon service.  
Foyle was aware of the private dining rooms available upstairs, where celebrities, nobles, and at least one king, had entertained their mistresses. The allure of secrecy had no appeal for him. He was content to be on display in a legitimate friendship.

As they savoured their meal, and Christopher enjoyed an occasional tantalizing glimpse of cleavage, Elizabeth asked lightly,  
"Tell me about Hastings."  
In a mischievous mood, he replied,  
"Wull, _er_...settlement dates back to before the eighth century, originally as the territory of the _Haestingas_ tribe—."  
She gave him the sort of warning look usually aimed over spectacles, though accompanied by an amused smirk.  
"Christopher. ...Tell me about _your life_ in Hastings. What are your pastimes when you're home?"  
He answered with an upside down smile,  
"Reading, generally, and...a game of chess, but in good weather…enjoy fishing — riverbank. And occasionally... a round of golf with a friend..."  
Her brows rose with interest at the mention of golf, but she didn't remark on it.  
"Gardening?"  
"Nnot...since it's been just the two of us at home…and then just me."  
She nodded sympathetically.  
"Walking?"  
"When I have to. ...Got a lifetime's worth of marching in the last war."  
"Ah, yes." She acknowledged solemnly.  
"But for pleasure? Hiking... or rambling?"  
Christopher gave her a chagrined half-smile,  
"Took Andrew on a walking tour of the Lake District at the age of twelve."  
He shook his head,  
"Don't know what I was thinking. Seemed like he complained the whole time. ...Yet when we got home he told everyone it was the best holiday he'd ever had."  
Elizabeth grinned.  
Christopher queried,  
"You mention it because…?"  
"Well, yes, I do enjoy a walking trip in the countryside...with sites of historical interest, and...suitable _comforts_ along the way."  
"Sounds considerably more appealing than the Western Front."  
He cocked an eyebrow at her, lifting a forkful of sautéed carrot,  
"...Plenty of rambles on the South Downs...or farther west."

Having agreed on a mutual affinity for the activity, they returned their attention to their plates. And as they ate, both thought it was an undiluted pleasure to be talking about anything other than work and post-War struggles with someone so congenial.  
Between bites of tender, flavourful pheasant, Elizabeth asked,  
"Were you born there? Are your people from Hastings?"  
"I _was_. My father was born there, and my grandfather. Beyond that...is lost in time. My grandfather was a boat builder. My father a police sergeant."  
"Ah. You followed in your father's footsteps?" She smiled.  
"From a _very_ young age. It was never discussed, ...which is to say, it was expected."  
"Had you...other aspirations?"  
"Nnot precisely defined. Joined the police at fifteen."  
Elizabeth raised her brows.  
"I see."  
"I..._er_...had some aptitude for it, apparently."  
"An understatement, one would surmise?"  
Christopher only gave a crooked smile. He'd finished his meal and now took up his wine glass, about to ask her a similar round of questions, but she continued,  
"Did you enjoy the work?"  
"_Er_...at times…"

He didn't really care to answer fully just at the moment, and was spared the necessity of an explanation when Elizabeth's attention was caught by a party descending the stairs. Her expression as she watched changed to aversion mixed with annoyance. Concerned, Foyle glanced over his shoulder as she muttered,  
"...Roland Bellamy…with his latest undergraduate. Opposed my nomination to a professorship."  
A tall, tweedy, middle aged gentleman escorted a younger woman, who suddenly made the universal gesture of remembering a forgotten item and turned back up the stairs to retrieve it. The man looked about idly, until he spotted Elizabeth. He blanched as if caught in a compromising position, then decided to brazen it out.  
He approached their table.  
"What's his subject?" Christopher asked hastily.  
"Classics." She answered in a hiss.

"Elizabeth!" The man chuckled,  
"Imagine meeting you, of all people, here! How are you?"

"Professor Bellamy. Yes, indeed. ...Allow me to introduce Mr. Foyle, ...a visiting lecturer." They traded a complicit glance and Foyle got up to face the man.  
"How'd'jou do."  
Barely acknowledging him, Bellamy absently shook hands while asking Elizabeth,  
"We haven't spoken since Knowles's funeral. Have you heard who's taking over the vacancy?"  
"No. I haven't."  
"I suppose they'll get his office, too. ...It's larger than mine..." He turned quickly to Foyle,  
"I say, it's not you, is it?"  
"_Er_, no, not me."  
"Not in the running? Just as well."

Elizabeth noticed the young woman at the foot of the stairs, hesitating and then plucking up her courage to join their conversation. Looking at Bellamy she asked loudly enough for her voice to carry,  
"How's Margaret? Doing well after her confinement? The latest makes four children, doesn't it?"  
The young woman stopped in her tracks and stared at the professor's back.  
Foyle offered quietly,  
"Ah… Congratulations."  
"Two sons and two daughters! A fine family, Roland…"

Elizabeth watched the undergraduate's face cloud over with dismay, anger and embarrassment before she turned on her heel, and Bellamy's head whipped around in time to see her walk out the door. His shoulders drooped momentarily, then he gathered his wits and turned back to ask Foyle,  
"Visiting lecturer, _eh_? What's your subject area?"  
Christopher locked eyes with him,  
"Ethics."

Bellamy paled again, managed a sickly smile, nodded at Elizabeth, and mumbled a farewell. She called after him pleasantly,  
"Give my best wishes to Margaret."

Christopher took his seat again, and Elizabeth, suppressing a smile, observed him closely.  
He raised his brows,  
"_Hmmm_?"  
"'Ethics'? ...Well done."  
They raised their glasses and saluted each other.

To be continued...

* * *

**Footnote:  
**'Rules Restaurant in Covent Garden is considered to be London's oldest restaurant, dating back to 1798. During the second world war, Rules stayed open but its structure was reinforced with thick wood. It was only open from 1pm to 3pm and offered the compulsory rationed meals at five shillings, but could offer copious rabbits, grouse and pheasants which were not rationed.' 'rules dot co dot uk'  
Presumably by 1947 their opening hours had increased. I'm not certain this particular glass ceiling is actually sky-blue (going by the photos online), but for my purposes it will be.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: **_Foyle's War_ was created by Anthony Horowitz, and the characters of Foyle, Valentine, Elizabeth Addis, Sam and Adam Wainwright, Sir Alec Myerson, et al. jointly created by Mr. Horowitz, Mr. Michael Kitchen, Mr. Tim McMullan, Ms. Hermione Gulliford, Ms. Honeysuckle Weeks, Mr. Daniel Weyman, Mr. Rupert Vansittart, and all the other brilliant actors. No infringement is intended, only admiration.

**Thanks:** Many thanks to GiuliettaC for beta-reading and offering suggestions for improvements to the story.

**Author's note:** Footnotes!

* * *

**Chapter 24**

Coming out of Rules, they discovered the rain had ceased but the streets were awash in puddles and the city air was damp with a descending fog. It was dusk already. Despite the ambient gloom, Christopher was adjusting to an unaccustomed and increasing sense of joy in his heart. As they strolled along Maiden Lane hand in hand, making their way west towards his car, a tune began to play in his head — the Gershwins' _A Foggy Day_ — and he glanced at Elizabeth's profile.

Very quietly he began to sing,  
_"...Suddenly...I saw you there…_  
_And through foggy London Town_  
_The sun was shiningg… evvv'ry-yy...wherrre…"_

He smiled shyly at her surprised expression, until he saw the glimmer of tears, and asked,  
"Oh, _er_...was it that bad? Little out of practice…"  
She laughed, blinked away the drops, and slipped her arm through his, drawing close.  
"You're making me fall in love with you…"  
Christopher came to an abrupt halt, and as Elizabeth was pulled around to face him he drew his left hand from his pocket to remove his hat.  
"Could level the same accusation at you…"  
They watched each other in mutual esteem until there was nothing else to do but meet in a kiss of longing, of confirmation, and gratitude.

A passerby cleared his throat as he stepped around them, moving quickly on up the pavement.  
They ignored the censure, and held each other tightly before breaking off the kiss in several stages of reluctant disengagement.  
Elizabeth rested her forehead on his, eyes closed, smiling happily.  
After a deep inhalation Christopher murmured,  
"Let's walk, shall we, ...while the rain holds off?"

They resumed their stroll, and he donned his trilby with a small celebratory flourish. Crossing the street and turning two corners — south onto Bedford and then eastbound into the bright lights of the Strand — they came to the Adelphi Theatre.*

They paused to read the marquee but neither was especially attracted by the description of _'Les Ballets des Champs Élysées.'_ Elizabeth confessed with a self-deprecating smirk,  
"Generally I enjoy the ballet, ...but I do need a day or two's notice to get into the right frame of mind for it."  
Christopher nodded in understanding, then he recalled something and inquired of her,  
"How d'you feel about Noël Coward?"  
"I adore Noël Coward."  
"Good. The revival of _'Present Laughter'_ opens mid-April at the Haymarket. I'll get us tickets."  
"Oh, that would be _lovely_, Christopher."  
They walked on, conversing easily, arms linked, Foyle taking the outside position on her right this time. Next they came to the Vaudeville, and read of the imminent opening of a new play, _'The Chiltern Hundreds.'  
_"Yea or nay?" Elizabeth asked, a sparkle in her eyes.  
"A comedy? Almost always a 'yea'..." He admitted with an inverted smile.  
"Excellent."  
"...Though this one would appear to be a comedy of _politics_, judging by the title, which, _er_, might devolve into farce."  
She chuckled at the remark as they continued up the street.

They passed by the Lyceum, recently converted to a ballroom. Neither made an observation on the change. Elizabeth turned her head, looking past Christopher, over the traffic, to study the bill of the Savoy across the Strand, and gestured towards it,  
"'_À la Carte'_…? Bits of Gilbert and Sullivan, perhaps? ...Oh, no. It's Alan Melville. He can be amusing, don't you think?"  
"_Mmm..._"  
She saw he was not reading the marquee at all, but watching her with a warm appreciation. She blushed with pleasure and gave him a quick kiss, whispering,  
"I'll take that as a 'nay,' then."

Further along was The Duchess Theatre, offering Webster's _'The White Devil,'_ an early seventeenth century tragedy.  
Christopher took his turn in the game, asking her with a tilt of his head,  
"Yea or nay?"  
"I'd have to say 'nay,' I'm afraid. I've lost my taste for a tragedy, lately, even if based on an historical event. Besides, I've read this one and it is egregiously unfair to women."  
"Fair enough." He gave a nod. "_Er_...the Aldwych is around the corner."

Here they read the poster for _'Jane,'_ by an American writer and based on a story by Somerset Maugham, which had in turn been inspired by Shaw's _Pygmalion_. Elizabeth announced,  
"I predict...that you'd...be willing to see this one."  
He raised a playful, questioning eyebrow and she explained her reasoning.  
"A comedy…, an intelligent observation of society...with a New World viewpoint."  
"Spot on." He confirmed with an appreciative half-grin.

"You said you've been to America, Christopher?" She asked, bumping against his shoulder as she avoided another couple passing them on her side.  
"I have. Travelled to Washington last year. ...Have you..._er_...?  
"Yes. California. Before the War. A conference at Stanford University. The climate there was...out of this world."  
"Long way to go. Atlantic crossing and then the whole continent by train."  
"Oh, well worth the journey." She turned to him with a marvelling expression,  
"The streets are lined with towering palm trees!"  
"...Delightful."

Circling the block, they eventually found themselves at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, where Noël Coward's _'Pacific 1860'_ was entering the third month of its run. Christopher suggested,  
"Read it's getting _mixed_ reviews, but, _em_...shall we see it?"  
"_Mmm_, not _this evening_..., if it's all the same to you, Christopher. I'm really quite happy walking around, as we are." She squeezed his arm to her side.  
"So am I."  
They gazed into each other's eyes, pleased to find themselves in perfect accord.

Crossing a little distance from the corner, avoiding a lake-sized puddle extending over half the junction, they strolled west on Russell Street. The fog was thick now, reducing visibility to less than ten feet, and they slowed their pace. Elizabeth remarked on the current offerings at the Royal Opera House, obscured from view though only a block to the north.  
"Apparently Margot Fonteyn is unwell, and other dancers are being deputised to perform her roles — Moira Shearer 'stepped in' for her in _'Lac des Cygnes'_ last week."  
"Oh, _er_…, _'Swan Lake'_? Shearer is the lovely, red-haired dancer?"  
She raised her brows in pleasant surprise,  
"Yes."  
"W'so you follow the ballet?"  
"It rather seems that _you do_, Christopher."  
"Nno...not really." He said lightly.  
"I suppose I do…along with many forms of entertainment. I think a nation's character is most strongly defined by its arts — the quality...and the freedom of its arts."  
"I'd agree."  
He paused before adding with a sigh,  
"...And yet, Drury Lane was the headquarters for ENSA…"  
Elizabeth laughed aloud.  
"_'Every Night Something Awful.'_ Yes, it took a little while for them to get going properly. ...We saw _'Hello Happiness'_ and other variety shows at the Cairo Opera House. Silly, for the most part, but so vitally important for morale."  
Foyle nodded and she expanded on the topic,  
"...Highbrow critics and social analysts insist that entertainment ought to be instructional or educational. I don't see any harm in a good laugh."  
"Wull, god knows...we need it now and then."  
"I've enjoyed many a production by Emile Littler." She admitted with a grin.  
"_Er_...can't say I've heard of him."  
"The pantomime king? A very successful theatrical producer..." *  
Christopher watched her luminous pearl-grey eyes, enticingly cast to the upper right as she made an effort to recall.  
"Let's see...he's a co-producer of _'Under the Counter'_ at the Phoenix with Cicely Courtneidge — it's been running since '45. And his_ 'Song of Norway'_ at the Palace began nearly a year ago…"  
"W'can't approve of _'Under the Counter.'_ Really…" he warned with a mock disapproving frown.  
"No," she chuckled, "...I wouldn't insist on _that one_, darling."  
She'd surprised herself with the endearment, slipping out so naturally, and she watched him for his reaction.

Foyle ran his tongue over his bottom lip. In the conversational pause they slowed to a stop under the nimbus of a street lamp. Drifting together again, nose to nose, he cupped her cheek in his hand.  
Before they could kiss, running footfalls approached. Foyle was instantly on the alert, pulling Elizabeth behind him. Two couples, eastbound for the restaurant and theatre district, hurried past them. After an initial frisson of fear, despite the commotion, Elizabeth only had eyes for Christopher, admiring his watchful composure as he appraised the situation.  
He pivoted back to her, half-smiling,  
"_Emm_...what were we discussing? Ah, yesss…"  
He drew intimately close and caressed her cheek again, but a moment later they heard the mild cries of a collision in the fog.

"Oh! Peter, I've knocked down a small boy. Dreadfully sorry."  
"Let me help you up, lad."  
"All right, madam? Very sorry. Come on, Alfred, you're all right. Walk behind me, the pair of ye. Bad as the bloody blackout, this is!"

Although they had taken refuge by the lamp post, Foyle again had to rescue Elizabeth, this time from the onslaught of the westbound man and his two young sons, who nearly blundered into them.  
Passing by, the cockney called out cheerily,  
"Mind how ye go, _'Lili Marlene.'_"  
The little, high-pitched voices trailed after him, querying,  
"Dad, who was that lady? Is she called Lily…? Well, why did you call her Lily...?"  
Despite her amused expression, Christopher firmly took Elizabeth's arm, flashed her an eye roll of defeat and determination, and set off westward again.

Russell Street opened onto Covent Garden, where the Market, shrouded in fog, presumably lay ahead of them. Quickening their pace, Christopher turned left and then right along the south side of the square, some distance from the calls and banter of the busy fruit and vegetable stalls.  
Aware of a new energy in his stride, Elizabeth wondered if he simply wanted to avoid the crowds in the fog or if he had a destination in mind. When they turned north and then left through a high-arched stone gateway she saw he was leading her to the entrance of 'the actors' church' - St. Paul's, Covent Garden.

Soon they were standing together before the red brick western façade of the simple, square-built old structure. Elizabeth wore a secret smile, which Christopher noticed, and he silently questioned her with a look.  
After a momentary hesitation she explained brightly,  
"...I've heard that Inigo Jones designed it to the specifications of the Earl of Bedford, purportedly promising him, 'then you shall have the handsomest barn in England.'"  
Foyle wasn't convinced it was the terms of an architectural commission that had brought on the smile, nonetheless he agreed,  
"Wull, t'is that. ...Shall we go in?"  
She nodded, and the smile was there again.

Foyle removed his hat, smoothed his hair, and they wandered up the softly-lit nave to view the choir and sanctuary. The ten tall stained glass windows were all darkened now, however the great uninterrupted interior space was pleasing in its proportions.  
As they admired the raised pulpit with its carvings attributed to Grinling Gibbons, he sought her hand again.

They looked back towards the gallery and gleaming brass organ above the narthex and door, and Foyle noted there were only a scattered few other people, walking about or sitting in contemplation. There would be a modicum of privacy for the conversation their evening together seemed to be leading them towards. When Elizabeth rested against his shoulder, he felt her breath warm on his neck and ear. Wrapping his arm around her waist, he guided her down the north aisle, and they settled into an empty pew, hands joined.

Neither was inclined to bend their head in prayer. Neither, at this moment, wished to discuss architecture, history or religion. In the stillness and quiet of the church, both now felt a heightened tension of expectation between them.

Foyle bit his lip, then decisively placed his hat on the end of the bench seat, turning with a question for Elizabeth, just as she, with a quick indrawn breath, leant confidentially towards him.  
"...As my father's no longer here to ask, _I_ will, on my own behalf. ...What are your..._intentions_, Christopher?"  
Suddenly his heart was thumping alarmingly fast in his chest — of the two possible discussions he'd desired, this was the one he'd believed it would be too soon to hope for.  
After a deep, slow inhalation he answered definitely,  
"My intentions…? _Em_...Mmmarriage."  
He raised her fingers up to his lips.  
"And..._your_ intentions, Elizabeth?"  
The light in her eyes was reassuring as she met his searching look,  
"Very much the same…"  
"Wull, _immensely_ pleased to know it." He pressed her hand to his cheek and watched closely for her response as he added,  
"Look, _em_...there's no _hurry_, of course …but...I _am_ sixty-one."  
Both smiled, amused at the confession.  
She countered,  
"On the contrary, I see no reason to _delay_..."  
He gave a single nod, and ventured,  
"_Er_...Special Licence acceptable?"  
"Yes. That would simplify things."  
Still holding her hand, he tilted his wrist to glance at his watch.  
"Register Office is...open for another half-hour..."  
He looked up at her with an eyebrow cocked as if for a dare.  
Although she was beaming, Christopher saw a flicker of hesitation in her eyes.  
"_Ahh_, what is it? Tell me, darling…"  
Elizabeth glowed at_ his_ first use of the endearment, but moved a shoulder in a slight, rather sensual shrug as if it didn't matter.  
"Oh… There's just...one small thing…"  
He puzzled a moment, then widened his eyes in recollection before slipping his right knee down onto the padded kneeler. It was a bit awkward in the narrow space between the pews — and under the curious gaze of an unwitting, small audience — but he found his balance.  
Caressing the back of her hand with his thumb, Foyle murmured just for her ears,  
"Elizabeth? Will you do me the _honour_...of becoming my wife... and...accepting me as your husband...?"  
Her eyes closed a moment in profound happiness, a single tear escaped, and she gave him her answer in a whisper.  
"...I _will_, Christopher."  
He rose up onto the bench beside her again, got out his handkerchief to soothe away the tear track, and tenderly kissed her.  
"That's _wwwonderful_…" He had to blink away the moisture in his own eyes.  
Heads together, they enjoyed the moment…until a quiet patter of applause arose from the surrounding benches.

The End. Most likely.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

*Ira and George Gershwin's _'A Foggy Day'_, was written in 1937 for the film,_ 'A Damsel in Distress'_ starring Fred Astaire. My favourite rendition is by Judy Garland at her solo concert at Carnegie Hall in 1961.

*Using a 1948 map online to plan their stroll through the theatre district. I've done my best to research the plays on offer at all the West End theatres in March of 1947.

*Bestower of RADA's Emile Littler Award for 'outstanding talent and aptitude for the professional theatre,' once won by a certain young Michael Kitchen. Now I know who Littler was. He passed away in 1985.

*Detailed architectural drawings of St. Paul's Church, and historical paintings, show both ten or twelve stained glass windows, as well as structures on the eastern end sort of like north and south transepts, or none at all. The church was rebuilt several times in its long history since 1631.

*I've found no record of WWII bomb damage around Covent Garden.


End file.
